God's Gonna Cut You Down
by ragna ayanami
Summary: How long is forever? When the undead rise, time means less than the dirt they walk on, but for those that live time is a precious treasure worth its weight. The road to salvation will be long and arduous, but the marshal is intent on walking its path, dragging along those close to heart whether they want it or not. What good was 'forever' if you didn't have anyone to share it with?
1. A Soldier, a Nerd and a Latina Joke

This is the 4th installment of my TWD Saga which centers around my OC. For the newbies, check out the other 3 parts before reading this one. It's going to be a long read and if that's your fancy, then you'll be a happy camper. Enjoy!

_All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman._

* * *

**Several kilometers outside Newnan, Georgia**

White clouds of hot breath escaped the man's lips. The cold began to eat at his hands, causing a light tremble. Even his cheeks had turned a rosy hue while numbness overcame his Rudolph's nose.

Daryl sniffed. _Goddamn cold._

The hunter never did like the cold. He preferred summer's scorching sun than this unbearable iciness. Ever since civilization ended, it seemed Mother Nature had had the bright idea of introducing cold winters down south, destroying every southerner's dream of a cool season.

Daryl sighed deeply as his thoughts flew over the bitter cold. It wasn't winter that had him climb the last remaining intact watchtower and gaze over the horizon forlornly.

Nine months.

That was how long it has passed since they won the Woodbury-Prison war, and eight months since he had last seen his brother or the Indian. February was upon them and not even a mention of them had passed his ears. His brother had made him a promise, swore to it, but then again it wouldn't be the first time Merle broke his promises. If Merle wanted to scour all of America then Daryl had no problem with that. He just wanted to know if his last remaining family was still alive and not dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere. Hell, even Samara guaranteed she would return and she was more trustworthy when it came to keeping to her word.

Daryl was at a loss.

Life at the prison came and went. New survivors sometimes got added to the flock, but it was becoming less frequent than in the beginning. Daryl didn't know if that was a sign of their imminent extinction or that people simply left Georgia for greener pastures. He hoped it was the latter.

The screech of metal alerted him that he would have a visitor, and soon enough, Tyreese appeared holding a cup of hot coffee, the vapors rising like phantoms before dissolving into the unknown.

"Damn, it's cold outside. I thought last winter was tough, but this one…" He whistled in amused wonder. "Easily beats it."

Daryl nodded, absentminded. He was in no mood for company, especially when he brooded. He'd rather have that one time for himself. Alone.

"Still looking for them, huh?"

He felt the lines on his forehead emphasize. "Just watchin' for walkers."

"Mhmm." The man took a sip out of his coffee and shuddered. It was either that good or that bad, and Daryl had an inkling which way it bended towards. It was with no wonder he had renounced caffeine for weeks now. "I don't think anyone has ever stared longingly at the dead before, not unless they got a death wish."

Daryl felt the corner of his mouth twitch. One of the downsides of living with other people for such a prolonged time—they tended to learn each other's ticks and peeves. Figured that one of them would catch on to his regular visits to the tower.

"It's been eight months." Daryl said disenchanted.

"Yeah, I get you, man. Both your brother and Samara left on the same day and we haven't heard a word of them since. Even Michonne is starting to get nervous."

_If that woman's feelin' nervous then there's definitely somethin' wrong._

"They're _fine_, Daryl."

The hunter scowled, not in the mood to be mollified. "And you know that how?"

"I don't, but I have to _believe_ that they are. What's the alternative?"

"That they're dead somewhere." The words felt like bile on his tongue, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. Before, when he had no knowledge of Merle living in Woodbury, Daryl hadn't worried of his brother's fate. He had known that wherever he was, he would survive even with one hand less. He had faith, but now, after finally reuniting with his brother only for him to disappear once again, he seemed less inclined to leave it to chance. Merle was tough, but anything could happen out there. One wrong move and it was lights out. As for the Indian...

"Don't think like that, man." Tyreese interrupted his dark musings. The man had a good heart, but Daryl's doubts overshadowed any comfort words could bring. "If you do, you're just gonna start eating yourself up. Make yourself sick. It's not a road you want to go down on, trust me. When Michonne started her little hunts for the Governor I was wrecked with worries. I could barely sleep until she returned. But as time passed, I understood that this was something she had to do. This was her closure and I made peace with her comings and goings. He's your brother, I get that. And…" Tyreese paused thoughtfully on his next words, but altogether let them flow. "I know that deep down you still care for Samara."

Daryl's glare was scathing. That was not a topic he wanted to touch ever again, or even mention in passing.

Tyreese must have sensed his displeasure as he further explained his comment. "Despite what happened between the two of you, she's still a part of us and you _know_ that. She's been through thick and thin alongside our people. Fought with us, defended this place and everyone in it with us. Bled for us." Tyreese huffed in light amusement, a strange twinkle in his eyes. "She's like the wayward daughter of the family. Only coming for the holidays and then disappearing again."

Despite the lighthearted air about him, the smile soon weaned in favor of a much subdued outlook.

"You can't switch that off, Daryl. You can't just _not care_ because things didn't work out between the two of you. She's still a friend."

At this point Daryl's glare was downright damning, but the more he listened the more it dissipated before finally settling into light apathy. Tyreese got him there. In that respect, he did care. As much as he tried not to think about it, Samara was one of them. She was a part of the family. If she died, it would like one of the others died.

"I know it's not really my business, but have you tried moving on?" Tyreese cocked his brow in curiosity. "There are a lot of single women now. Not like you don't have anything to choose from."

Daryl felt his muscles constrict awkwardly. This was another topic he did not feel so inclined to breach.

"I mean, I've seen the way Karen looks at you."

Daryl shot him a confused stare. _Karen?_

"You could try with her, and hey, maybe it could turn into something good for the both of you. It's not healthy to be alone, brother."

"There are about forty people in the prison." Daryl snarked. "How the hell am I alone?"

"You _know_ what I mean."

The hunter shook his head, ambivalent. There was a reason he kept to himself once again, never letting anyone new past the defenses he reinforced. He'd rather not have another repeat of what happened with Samara. He didn't think he could go through that again and come out unscathed.

"I'm just trying to be a friend, Daryl. I hate seeing you up here almost daily. I can see the way it's wearing you out. The others can also. You can't keep thinking about it. You can't torture yourself like this. It's not going to magically make them appear."

Daryl kept silent. Tyreese wanted him to focus on other subjects, or people by his words, to overlook that there were two others out there, missing. If only it would be that simple to switch off. He knew the man was only thinking of Daryl's sanity and health, but this was not an issue that could be simply resolved with a distraction.

Tyreese sighed in defeat and settled his hand on Daryl's shoulder emphatically, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

"I'll leave you be. Just don't forget about the supply run for the medicine. We already got two more sick, we can't afford any more. I swear I'm gonna lose my head if we have any more people die."

In his forsaken brooding, he forgot that the man himself had his own troubled worries to deal with. "How's Sasha?"

Tyreese's lips pursed, concern written all over his face. "She's getting worse. Hallucinating. Chris also."

Sasha and her boyfriend, Chris. They were just two of the few unfortunate enough to have caught the deadly flu that had been circulating inside the prison. The first signs had sprouted a week ago, and after the intense fever took its first victim, Hershel had immediately declared that a quarantine was in order. The old vet was still working on finding a definitive cure, but for now he had to rely on antibiotics even if they only slowed down the fever. Even a little time extra meant the world in this race against the clock. Worse, was the fact that searching for medicine became harder than ever. More often than not, the scavenging team returned with empty hands to the people's dismay.

"She ain't gonna die, man." Daryl said resolutely. Sasha, despite being the younger sibling, was more determined and stubborn than her older brother. "She's a tough chic."

"I know. I just hate seeing her in pain."

Daryl understood all too well.

Long after Tyreese left the hunter on his own, Daryl kept on searching the horizon, his thoughts as erratic as the morning fog. Hesitantly, Daryl reached inside his winter jacket and took out a turquoise piece of jewelry. He could never figure out why he still carried it with him after all this time, especially considering who its owner had once been, but throwing it away had never once crossed his mind. It would be like tossing away his crossbow.

Daryl sighed resignedly.

_I'm an idiot._

* * *

**Monroe, Louisiana**

Samara sat comfortably near a small fire she had built out of some wooden pews. Night was almost upon the small church, the dying light doing flamboyant wonders on the stained glass. It almost felt peaceful as the kaleidoscope of colors washed over her with cool serenity.

At least it was better than thinking about the cold.

The former marshal rubbed her fingers against the heat of the flames, hoping for a change in her stone cold hands. She felt chilly all over her skin and not even the fire seemed to spark any warmth in her bones.

With a sigh to her futile endeavor, the Native took out a photo out of her coat pocket, worn out and crumpled by time. She might as well pass the time woeing about her deceased husband than woeing about the freezing winter. No matter how much time passed, it was always a familiar comfort in gazing upon his crooked smile. Like an old childhood pastime that gave nostalgia once adulthood came rolling by. And one you knew you could _never_ go back to.

A rustle next to her reminded Samara that she was not as alone as she would have liked. There was a woman next to her, warming her gloved hands by the fire while simultaneously trying to steal a peek at the photo in Samara's hands.

_Curious, aren't you?_

"Who's that?"

"He _was_ my husband." Samara said as she shoved the wrinkled piece back in her pocket.

"Oh." She mumbled uncomfortably, but thankfully she did not ask anything further on the subject.

The younger woman returned to staring in the flames and trying to hopelessly warm herself. Samara watched the Latina closely—she was young, maybe somewhere around her mid-twenties, and not bad to look at. By pre-virus standards, she was a beauty with straight, long toffee hair and almond shaped brown eyes. Her figure was slim, but with enough curve to make men's heads turn with admiration.

She wasn't the only companion she had. The other occupant of the church already snored as his fat ass snuggled deep in his bedroll, not a care in the world. Only two more were absent to complete the whole set of her merry band.

An owl hooted in the near distance.

_Speak of the devils_—

It wasn't any regular owl call. It was man made, attached to a certain eccentric, wild hick that Samara had the misfortune of knowing. The Native responded with her own call to assure the outside party that everything was in order. Not soon after, boots crunched through the dirt and dust of the church and two men appeared from the shadows—the hick called Merle and the giant ginger.

Merle grinned as he settled by the fire, dropping a full duffel. He seemed pleased with himself, like a mighty caveman back from his hunt.

"Got ourselves a great catch."

Samara nodded absentmindedly, her focus on the Latina as she jumped in the ginger's arms and passionately kissed him. The Native turned away, the only indication of what she felt expressed in a wrinkle on her forehead. It was bad enough she had to listen to them fucking which was pretty often (_and pretty loud_), she didn't need to see their affection in the daylight as well.

The rustle of food packets snapped her to attention. Bags of pretzels, chips, mixed nuts, cans of fruit, tuna, peas, rice, beans and meat flowed from Merle's hands.

"Abraham's got more. Even found some pills and water bottles."

"No fuel, though." The ginger known as Abraham said as he disentangled from his pretty girlfriend. "You and Merle gotta head out again tomorrow, search a different side of the town. Hope you're luckier than we were today."

Their merry group had a system which Abraham insisted on—two went out scavenging while three stayed behind and the fat ass that Samara tended to scowl at was always excused unless absolutely necessary. He was just too _valuable_.

Samara looked them over. A burly Texan Ranger, a pretty young Latina and a mullet wearing, heavy weight peculiar man who seemed to recall a lot of odd information.

—Abraham Ford, Rosita Espinosa and Eugene Porter.

Her uninvited road companions.

"Where did you find all this loot?" Rosita asked as she dug through Abraham's bag, a hungry smile on her face.

"An untouched house. Someone packed for the end of the world, thinkin' they could outrun it. Most of the food went bad, but what we found, we brought." Abraham grinned as he kissed Rosita's shoulder, evidently proud of his find.

"This is great! We could last a month off these!"

"More like two weeks if we ration carefully." Eugene spoiled her happy bubble. Having woken up because of the commotion, the mullet wearer had waddled over to the group, his weasel eyes meticulously surveying the findings.

"It's enough to get us to Georgia." Samara interjected. "As long as we don't run into any obstacles."

"Found somethin' else, Chippewa. Here."

Samara expertly caught Merle's throw and for the first time in months, a smile bloomed over her face. A genuine, real smile of pleasure.

—Cigarettes. An untouched pack even.

Samara relished in the nicotine taste like a deprived junkie. Weeks had passed since she'd had one puff of smoke and she floated off on cloud nine. To be honest, renouncing cigarettes entirely would be the best option considering the present state of affairs, but what was life if you couldn't enjoy the little things that were still left.

"Got my own, too." Merle then glared, a stubby finger pointed at her menacingly. "I catch you stealin' my cigarettes again because you chain-smoked through yours, I'm gonna kick your ass, squaw."

As Merle moved to his side of the church, he mumbled obscenities underneath his breath and something about properly hiding his stash from now on where the Indian couldn't find them. Even knowing that cigarettes were a rare commodity, Samara still finished them sooner than expected. It was impulsive, but Samara might as well relish in them than starve herself of the pleasure. Unfortunately, once she got a taste of it she needed more and that left Merle's unfinished pack, to his greatest displeasure.

By the time night had fully settled in, Rosita had prepared dinner for all of them—beans and ham. It wasn't much, but it felt like a full course dinner after living off woodland creatures and stale food (and the occasional dog treats). They ate mostly in silence, occasionally chatting. Samara did not join the conversation, her mind still far away.

They had a long and dangerous road ahead of them. Abraham and his people had their eyes set on Washington DC, and Merle and Samara were their escort on one condition. Their road would lead through Georgia with a quick detour to the outskirts of Newnan. It was time to make good on that promise and Samara could barely wait.

* * *

It was the early hours of the morning when Merle and Samara walked through the almost deserted streets of Monroe in search for gas. A light fog settled over their world, giving off an eerie feeling.

Merle spat and coughed as bitter fuel flooded his mouth. The hick had the unpleasant job of siphoning fuel from abandoned cars. Samara stood as lookout atop the car, gaze and compound bow vigilant for any dangers lurking in the mist. It was not the only weapon on her body—her trusty shoulder holsters with two handguns, a knife hidden in her boot, self-made tomahawk at her waist along with a few other throwing knives and a hunting rifle slung across her back. Some might call that excessive, but Samara liked to think of herself as precautious.

March was a shitty month in Georgia, as Merle put it. Half the month it rained while the other half was cloudy. And it never got above twenty degrees Celsius, so it was perpetually chilly. An unpleasant combination.

Samara had found a long, beige trench coat and black cargo pants that covered her legs and ended in army boots. As per her usual fashion, Samara wore dark rounded sunglasses and her skeleton face mask. Merle always called her silly for wearing what he essentially called 'a movie getup', but she didn't care. Samara felt good in them. Wasn't this what a survivor of the post-apocalyptic world should look like?

Merle wasn't any different. He wore a camouflage hunting jacket, a cap on his head, dark brown pants and the same brand of dark army boots as Samara's. He too was armed to the teeth with knives, machete, handguns, a sawed off shotgun strapped to his thigh and a one-handed crossbow given to him as a parting gift. He treasured that thing since it wasn't any bigger than a handgun with the same handle and trigger as one. It wasn't as powerful as a real-sized crossbow, but it still penetrated undead skin like butter. He even hunted fish and smaller animals with it.

The world had cycled again. In just two years, nature had taken over, slowly but surely reclaiming its rightful dominion. The roads and buildings deteriorated as they remained unattended by human hands. Plants grew through the cracks in the pavement, slowly spreading over. Houses now lay abandoned and forlorn, used as animal refuge or for the occasional survivor looking for a temporary safe place to recharge.

—It was _beautiful_.

Samara had often wondered how long it would take until everything man-made was covered in vibrant green; until the world finally began healing itself after they had so recklessly and greedily poisoned it. If the human race was as unlucky as Samara believed, they would in a hundred years or less become extinct and nothing but these shambling corpses will be left behind as the last unliving testament of their existence here on Earth. The Native wondered how long the walkers would keep on moving until they too finally expire—

"See anythin'?"

"Sleepers only." That was what Samara called the upright walkers that, unless stimulated from up close, remained catatonic. Not to be mistakes with their ever deadlier cousins, the lurkers. In these two years she had seen quite a few variations, all with _cute_ little tags on them—roamers, lurkers, floaters, sleepers, flamers, crawlers and so on. Merle's favorites were the berserkers. The ones that stumbled into a frenzy whenever fresh meat was about. They were the most _fun_ to tackle and it seemed Abraham shared the same opinion as he too enjoyed 'playing' with them. Two peas in a pod, those two.

Samara gave Merle a reproachful look, one that he missed entirely as he focused on siphoning fuel.

"You and Abraham are close."

Merle looked at her flatly before a grin spread his lips thin. "Ain't gonna run away with him, Pocahontas, if that's what you're worried about. You ain't gettin' rid of me that easily."

_Unfortunately. _"I'm just saying you shouldn't get attached. We're not going to travel with them forever. The moment we hit Washington, we part ways."

"Come on, darlin'. Don't kill the fun. He's the first hombre since the gang that hasn't tried to kill or eat me, got a sense of humor, and likes fightin' and boozin' it up. Hell yeah we're gonna be best of buds! I've been livin' with your cynical ass for months now. A breath of fresh air would do me good. There's a reason men had 'guy time' back in the day."

To Merle's annoyance, Samara rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion.

"Christ, this is what married life must be like. Bitches always naggin'."

The duo continue on to the next car in the same formation. Merle siphoned, Samara watched. After leaving Georgia months ago, they had traveled up and down the west coast. They had even stopped in Las Vegas, but the city overflowed with the undead making it impossible to approach. Dangers had been about at every turn, even escaping some hairy situations that could have ended much worse.

Running into other humans had been interesting. In California they had met a group of somewhat approachable survivors. A biker gang. Fun people once you got past their rough and tumble attitudes and their general distrust of outsiders. Merle especially had taken a shine to them. But for Samara, it had been Arizona. The community surviving there had made it fairly difficult for Samara to leave behind, but in the end she did.

It was time for the last stop of her journey. The northern east coast called to her like a lulling siren, urging her to put the remains of her demons to rest.

Regrettably, upon reaching Texas a month ago they ran into the Brady Bunch back at the church. At first, a fight broke out between the peacocking Merle and the stubborn Abraham over a canister of fuel. The women had to peel the men off each other with caution as fists flew haphazardly. Samara sustained an ugly shiner for an entire week thanks to Merle's rogue elbow, but once their spirits quieted, they began talking. The duo learned of their _super_ classified mission—save Eugene, save the world. Apparently, the giant bacon was a scientist who knew what caused the pandemic and Washington was the location where he could reverse the effects and save the world.

_Horseshit._

Samara didn't believe it for a second. There was no reversing the plague. No salvation. As long as humans still walked the earth, the virus would never fade away. They were stuck with it until their last breath. Moreover, something about Eugene screamed manipulator and Samara had always been of the mind to listen to her instincts. Merle was of the same thought. He didn't trust Eugene, but no matter how hard he tried to convey that to Abraham, the man was deadest on Eugene being their savior.

The older Dixon had been the one to decide their course. He wished to reach Washington, not for the sake of the mission, but because he _needed_ to see if there was anything left of the capital. If maybe people had united there and molded a community. Merle was looking for the metaphorical phoenix in the ashes. Salvation from this nightmare and if this was Merle's way of keeping hope alive then she would not take that away from him with her negativity.

"Can't wait to reach the prison." Merle said as he screwed the cap on a full canister. "Wonder how Daryl's doin'."

"Wonder how everyone's doing."

"Maybe you. The others don't matter none to me."

Samara stilled the need to roll her eyes, but Merle's words did spark a certain matter that had recently kept her from decent sleep.

"Do you think they're still there?"

"'Course they are. Where else would they be?"

"Dead or just…gone." This had been Samara's recurring nightmare the closer they got to Georgia. "Maybe they abandoned the place or were forced to. A hundred things could have happened since we left."

At this point, Samara wouldn't be surprised if the prison was nothing but rubble. It wasn't like she could keep in touch with the people back in Georgia and unfortunately, anything was possible these days.

"You know, that fucked up view you have gets me mad sometime." He glowered. "Daryl ain't dead. He's still there. Probably bored out of his mind with _those_ people."

Even after all this time, Merle was still a sourpuss when it came to the others. There was someone on this planet that could hold a grudge worse than Samara, to her utter surprise.

"You know, you might want to ease up on Rick and the others. It's been quite a while. They might have forgiven what you've done. Hell, even I did." _Reluctantly_. "Maybe they're even prepared to welcome you back into the fold."

"Right, and if I'm a good little boy my hand's gonna grow back." He snorted in high disbelief. "Grow up, Pocahontas. Sheriff ain't one to forget so easily. Besides, who says I wanna be a part of them? Goddamn yuppies."

"You want to because your brother is there." He didn't fool her.

Merle paused in his work and shot her an unwavering stare. If his head had been transparent, Samara could have seen the wheels turning furiously. Patiently, she waited for whatever his mind would concoct, knowing full well that his words would either annoy or make her want to punch his lights out.

"Why didn't you wanna be with them, huh? Why the hell did you leave all those months ago? You were part of the inner circle. Could've been a big boss there."

_I guess he's going for the throat._

"Had my reasons."

"Cold feet, huh?"

His smirk was a combination of deeper knowledge and intuition, but Samara could only perceive the mocking nature of his words. The man realized that Samara had more or less ran away, what he didn't know was her exact reason for it and the woman did not feel inclined to share it.

"That's cold, darlin'." He tutted. "Makes me sad for my little brother."

Pursing her lips, Samara evened her temper. He was goading her, trying to make her reveal the truth, but she would not give fuel for his fire. Whenever the urge itched him, Merle would taunt her with her decision, leaving Samara torn between the belief that he was either messing around for the shits and giggles or he actually wanted a clear, definitive answer. The man was an enigma.

"Do me a favor, Sammy." Merle got to his feet, both hands occupied with gasoline canisters. There was a looming shadow over his face, and Samara knew it wasn't from an erratic sleeping cycle. "When we get back to the prison. Don't you give my baby brother hope. Don't you dare trick him into thinkin' you're capable of somethin' you ain't. Because if you do…I'm gonna break your neck."

This time he wasn't joking. It wasn't the threatening manner that tipped her off, but the use of her name. Merle had a bizarre tendency to only use her name in serious situations, otherwise it would be any other derogatory nickname his mind recycled. Considering that it was his brother they were speaking about, it was understandable that he would become overprotective in his own brutish style.

But what Samara found cynically amusing was his continuous prying interest in her defunct relationship with Daryl.

"Hypothetically speaking, what the hell makes you think he'll even let me get that close?"

"Because I know my brother. He don't let go so easily. He's stupid like that. Always told him, but he never listens. Women bring nothin' but trouble. "

Samara jumped off the roof of the car and followed the hick down the deserted street of Monroe. She tried not to think on Merle's words, but her brain decided to be sadistic and wonder 'what if'. It was a steep road to walk down on. Risky and treacherous. She had tried putting Daryl out of her mind for the entire length of her trip, but those sneaky thoughts always managed to claw their way to the surface. A part of her dreaded returning to the prison while the other half was elated in it. Once that moment was upon her, Samara felt torn on how she would react in seeing him again, but she realized on one soul-searching night that whatever happened she would just go with the flow and try not to resist it this time.

Life was too short and she might as well enjoy what moments she still had left.

* * *

A bright eye scrutinized in predatory silence. Watched as familiar, treacherous faces went about their business, as his enemies walked with leisure about their home, free of any impending doom.

—As Rick walked down to his little animal barn with buckets of food no doubt for the pigs he now raised like some foul-smelling, ignorant farmer.

This was not the Kentucky sheriff he remembered. The fearless and bold leader of the prison that repelled his merciless onslaught and proved that despite the losses he suffered, he still managed to outdo him with surprising strength and cunning. The man he both loathed and respected seemed to have been dethroned to the menial task of caring for animals while others decided the fate of the whole.

How curious. They both lost everything and reduced to nothing but peons. Lost to their true purpose of taking destiny by the steering wheel and steadily driving its course instead of letting it decide for itself.

But unlike Rick, he had the drive to take it all back, with force if necessary, and he did, right out of Martinez's hands. Now, with a small army at his command, he was more than ready to take control of his one true purpose and make himself a new home. The utopia he had always dreamed of with him at its top.

The man slipped away into the protective cover of the forest, his steps as silent as his rage. Soon, the sound of vengeance would echo once more and this time, it would be their screams and blood that would splatter the cool pavement.

Just like planned, all those months ago.


	2. For Whom the Bells Toll

On the back of the moving truck, Merle and Samara made themselves as comfortable as the hard bed allowed them. This was their usual sitting arrangement in Abraham's beast of a truck since it only had three seats, but it worked just fine for the duo. Fresh air could do wonders for the body, especially for two heavy smokers. Scouting the area was a favorite pastime for Samara while Merle tended to occupy his time with other quiet endeavors.

A pair of binoculars fixated on a certain spot in the distance.

"I see it."

Merle grunted casually, not once lifting his eyes from his book.

Samara followed the 'Welcome to Georgia' sign before it disappeared behind them. Since Monroe, they had been on the road for twelve days. Road blocks, walker herds and the damned truck overheating had delayed their arrival. Stopping for a few days in Alabama had been a necessity to salvage certain parts for the truck so Abraham could fix it. Not to mention food scavenging, bathroom breaks and fuel syphoning. Before, it would have taken eight to nine hours to get from Monroe to Newnan, but now…a person would be lucky if it took only a week.

Before long, they would arrive at the prison and be reunited with the ones they left behind. Steadily, Samara felt a growing euphoria bubble in her chest. Just the knowledge that she would soon be in the presence of her friends left her as giddy as a schoolgirl. Michonne, Andrea, Rick, everyone else. Hell, at this point she would be happy to even see Carol as long she knew it was a familiar face.

Samara sat opposite Merle, watching him study. He'd picked up the habit of reading whenever they had the spare time. Mostly crime novels and even some soul-searching books. To her peculiar surprise, he had even started carrying a small book with him.

"Do you still carry that Bible?"

Merle patted his jacket's breast pocket without taking his eyes off the pages.

"I never asked you, but why? You don't strike me as the 'praise Jesus' type."

"I ain't, but a bit of light readin' never hurt nobody. Besides, this here my lucky charm."

"There's no such thing as lucky objects, you damn honky."

Merle sighed, almost as if displeased to be interrupted from his limited leisure time, and took off his glasses. Not long ago, Samara had discovered that the older Dixon needed spectacles after some embarrassing misreading's. Due to her insistence, they had found a suitable pair for close up reading and even thought Merle grumbled in the beginning, he seemed to be glad for them as they allowed him to indulge in his hobby.

"Remember in LA when we got separated?"

"Best two days of my life."

Merle gave her the finger.

"Got cornered by some walkers, almost got my ass chewed on, and this little book." He took it out of his pocket and stared at it with silent fondness. "This here saved my life. Walker was comin' for me, I was on the ground, no weapon in sight. Thought this was it. Man can't have a third chance of escapin' death after all. But then that dumbass walker slipped on this little book and the impact just broke his skull in two. Must've been a real rotten one. This little thing's been keepin' my ass safe ever since. So yeah, this here my lucky charm."

"It was a coincidence."

"You say tomato, I say tomato." He slipped the book back in and gave the Native a scrutinizing look, focused mostly on her face. "What about you, Tonto? Why are you still smearin' that shit all over your face? Case you haven't noticed, we left Arizona a long time ago."

That 'shit' in question was war paint. Five, greyish-blue stripes that ran along vertically over her face, ragged trails left by her fingers. Like religion she would retouch it, never once letting them fade away.

"I have my reasons." Samara grumbled defensively.

"Well then, I also got my own reasons for carryin' around my little piece of luck."

_Touche._

"When we arrive at the prison…Gods, I hope they have some good food there." She had been dreaming of some of those delicious cooked meals by Beth or Carol. Could even smell them.

"Mhmm. Need me some cooked meat. Gettin' kinda tired of canned food."

"And squirrels." During the periods when it had been only the two of them, they had survived mostly on squirrels and birds with the occasional rabbit. Never anything too large since they hadn't had the means to preserve or transport it.

"You can never tire of squirrels, darlin'. They the good meat."

Samara couldn't attest to that.

As she stared at the older Dixon, Samara wondered on a topic that both fascinated and plagued her. She hadn't dared touch on it before nor did the time seem appropriate, but so close now she felt the need to vocalize it.

"You ever regret staying with me?" She watched him prudently, careful of any lapse of expression. "You had your chances to leave, but you didn't. You could've stayed with the bikers, but you chose to come back east with me. Didn't expect that, to be honest."

His face was neutral, without a hint of what lay underneath.

"If you're lookin' for a little pow-wow, you got the wrong Dixon, sweetheart. I don't do heart to heart."

Samara smirked, having already anticipated his answer. Merle had never been one for sentimental talk, especially sober. He laughed and expressed his anger and displeasure freely, but when it came to meaningful conversation he was a closed book.

"I'm glad you did." Samara smirked, the edges of her lips soft. "You might be a giant thorn in my ass, old man, but you're at least better company than Alistair. Well…only a little."

"Well, shucks darlin'. I _love_ you, too." Merle scoffed before waving her off so he could continue on reading. "Goddamn, I liked you better when you were barely talkin'."

They had been traveling for nine months, she and the older Dixon. Nine _long_ months sleeping and breathing the same air. At first, Samara had found it hard, even downright exasperating. Twice, she had tried leaving him behind but the bastard managed to track her down with accuracy. He stuck to her like an annoying flea, but as the weeks turned to months she learned to rely on him as he did her. Samara had learned a lot from Merle. Not only had he taught her the system he shared with Daryl in bird calls, he had also helped her improve in hunting, tracking, survival and even manufacturing basic traps. Using the bow had fast become her favorite weapon.

The two depended and protected each other, and somehow Samara had come to the conclusion that accepting him in her car had been the wisest decision she had made. Despite all his faults, Merle was useful and could be funny in a macabre and vulgar way. They bantered and argued most of the time, but somehow it never seemed to bother her. Perhaps because he reminded her a little of Daryl and having at least that put her heart at ease.

* * *

"Samara, wake up!"

Like the lashing of a whip, Samara woke with a startle. She jumped to her feet, sleep rapidly draining from her mind as she readied her bow. Bad things were coming and the Native was fully prepared to fight or flee if need be.

Her eyes assessed the environment. For one, the truck wasn't moving. It stagnated in the middle of the road with Merle overlooking something in the distance. Whatever it was it instilled panic in the older man, his jaw on edge and the veins on his temple bulging with rapidly pumping blood.

She saw it then. Merle's frenzy—

A cloud of smoke rose in the distance, dark grey and thick.

Samara knew. Despite being asleep for hours with no knowledge of how far along they were on their course or even where they were, she just _knew_.

"No…"

A heavy stone dropped in her stomach.

_Please, don't let it be true._

Entranced by the chilling scene before her, Samara barely heard Merle urgently bang on the roof of the truck.

"Hey, Texas Ranger! Move this hunk of metal! We gotta get there now!"

Abraham stuck his head out the window, his thoughts on their destination clear on his face. "It doesn't look good, Merle."

"I don't give a shit! Get me to my brother!"

With reluctance, the truck sprung to life and soon the familiar beaten path came to view. Samara felt skeletal hands sink their jagged nails into her throat, strangling the breath out of her. It felt wrong, like slowly heading towards a funeral. That same feeling of dread overwhelmed her, threatening to sink her to the bottom of the abysmal ocean.

Instead of focusing on that plummeting feeling, Samara threw herself into her ritual, Merle already way ahead of her. They both checked their weapons, fed the ammo clips and supplied their bows with arrows. Who knew what awaited them on the other side of the forest and they no longer took any chances, experience having taught them that.

The closer they got, the more walkers could be spotted, all marching towards the prison. Whenever the undead walked with singular intent, it meant bad things had passed.

—It meant the stench of death was fresh.

The truck stopped suddenly, nearly knocking the duo off their feet. Merle banged on the back window angrily, foully cursing the man behind the wheel.

"We're not goin' any closer, Merle. This doesn't feel _right_."

With a growl, Merle jumped out of the truck with Samara hot on his tracks. If Abraham would not move, they would just have to walk the distance through the undead. There was no time to stop and think. Now was the time to act, at least until they understood the situation more clearly.

As they passed the cabin, Abraham stuck his head out, one eye on Samara and the other on the many walkers already changing course towards them.

"I can't go with you, Samara. I can't risk Eugene gettin' caught in whatever the hell is goin' on out there."

Samara understood. The man was fixed on getting Eugene to Washington even if it meant over their bodies. Samara had never asked, but there had to be a reason behind Abraham's resilient drive. Nobody would go to such lengths, even if it meant 'curing' the undead, without a personal motive.

"Get back on the main road and wait for us there. If we're not back by sunset, go."

Without another look back, Samara ran after Merle. The two hunters forgo the dirt road and silently ran through the forest, avoiding the walkers and their grubby fingers as they went.

The Native felt her heart leap into her throat. A dozen scenarios, each more gruesome than the other, rotated in her mind with sadism. Anything could be waiting for them on the other side of the forest and judging by the smoke, Samara knew it wasn't anything good.

The closer they got, the more she could smell death. Not the walker kind as theirs was a rotten, sickly-sweet stench. This one was fresh and coppery. Samara fought back a sob and she could already picture what lay beyond the approaching tree line.

Breaking through the foliage, the two hunters both stopped cold in their tracks, shock hitting them like a hammer. The prison…

—It was _gone_.

The fences had been run over. Walkers ran rampant through the fields and courtyard. Bodies lay everywhere. Building parts had been destroyed with its inner skeletons exposed. The watchtower was on fire and a tank was on the field. This was the scene of a harsh battle. An unprecedented attack on the prison and the people in it had not been prepared for its gravity.

_They're dead._

That was all Samara's numb mind could think off.

_We were too late._

Why? For what purpose? Wasn't it enough that they had the undead to fight off, somebody else had to come along and destroy what little safety there was left in this world? Spite, hatred, jealousy…What good did that bring except for blood and grief? The more Samara explored this ravaged, barren world, the more sadness accumulated in her soul. Nothing was sacred anymore, everything was a free for all.

"Come on." Merle's hollow voice broke through the thick silence, a light tremble to his words. "We need to camouflage ourselves and make sure that…that _he's_ not one of the dead."

He too was afraid. Hope seemed like a laughable context in the face of such a horrible scene. Samara felt a hysterical cackle bubble deep in her gut. Start where? Which body? There was so many strewn around that it would take more than a day to identify them all. A cold shiver puckered her skin as the Native was transported to a different time and different country. There was no difference between what she saw here and what she witnessed during her army years, just raw death and carnage.

With stiff limbs, Samara followed the older hunter on instinct. They quickly found a pair of walkers and picked them apart, spreading blood and guts all over their clothing, face and hair. It was disgusting work, but necessary. When forced with such a large presence of undead, it was more efficient to become one of them than walk around with a large target on their backs that screamed 'fresh meat'.

Carefully, they walked over the downed fences, the walkers not the least bit perturbed by the two new additions. Merle took point while Samara had the back, both with their weapons ready. Neither made a sound, communicating simply through the hand signals they both learned in the military.

Samara felt as if she were stepping into another dimension. A parallel world where another version of the prison existed aside the one she remembered. It felt wrong, but the reality was staring her right in the face. Nothing lasted in the face of the tireless undead. Whatever home or family was constructed, it all inevitably came crashing down in fire and blood.

Abruptly, Merle stopped.

"Holy shit…"

Samara walked up to him and her stomach instantaneously constrained into a painful knot.

—It was the Governor.

He laid dead on the field, chest bloodied and with a bullet hole in his forehead.

"Motherfucker." Samara snarled, rage infesting her veins with sizzling hotness. "He came back."

"Came to finish what he started." Merle continued before steeling his gaze. "He always was a sore loser."

Without regard or any before thought, Samara stomped on the Governor's face until there wasn't anything recognizable left. The moment his skull caved underneath the force of her boot, the Native felt an intense, twisted satisfaction. He was the reason for this massacre. The reason so many dead lay forgotten and picked by scavengers and crows. The reason her home was on fire. Her friends either dead or vanished.

—Everything was _gone_ because of this madman.

Crunch!

Grinding her boot into the mush of brains and bits of bone, Samara spat on his corpse. She wished she could do more, but what was left of him was nothing but an empty carcass. In the end, beating a dead horse never fulfilled anyone. The fact that he got away with only a stab and bullet made her even madder. He deserved far worse for what atrocity he had caused.

Merle had to physically pry her away from the mutilated corpse, otherwise Samara would have continued in her ghoulish dance. With hatred spilling poison into her body, the Native marched on, hardening herself to what new horrors she would find the further she ventured into the prison. She was painfully aware that familiar faces would pop out any moment, either devoid of life or shambling to the song of the undead. The urge to turn back and run was hot on her heels, and she wished she could just hide and be ignorant of the events that transpired, but she had a duty to search for any survivors.

She had a duty to mourn her friends.

There were many bodies with rifles and unknown faces. They must have been the people that came with the Governor and Samara wished she could spit on them too, but time was of the essence. From Merle's often contorting expression, he must have recognized some of the corpses as the Woodbury people. Samara only vaguely remembered them, more intent on searching for familiar faces than those that temporarily crossed her path.

Upon reaching the basketball court, what Samara saw almost floored her to her knees—it was _Hershel_. He was dead, a bullet having perforated his skull. The rifle he had used to defend his home and family was still in his hands, gripped tightly in rigor mortis.

"Old man died fightin'." Merle crouched low and closed Hershel's eyes in respect. "He was lucky. It was fast. Might not even seen the bullet."

Samara strongly suppressed the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks by biting the inside of her cheek until the taste of copper flooded her tongue. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be alive, happy to be reunited again. The old man didn't deserve this end.

"Rest in peace, doc."

In a daze, Samara followed the older Dixon. She wished she could give Hershel a proper funeral, but time was not on their side. The Native profoundly apologized for the abandonment and hoped that wherever he was now, was a far better place than this ongoing hell.

_Rest in peace, Hershel. You were always kind to me and patient. I swear if Maggie and Beth are still alive, I will find them. It's the least I could do so you don't worry in the next life._

They marched on with a feeling of looming dread hanging over their heads. Hershel was just the first, she knew. More would follow, some worse than others. It wasn't a search mission anymore, but a death record.

The moment they opened the prison door, they were instantly hit with a wave of horrid stench. Decay and blood mixed with spilled intestines and putrid walker flesh after a few days of stewing in a closed space was enough to make the two living hunters tear up and gag. Samara rolled her mask up over her mouth and nose while Merle tied a bandanna over his face. The cloths barely shielded them from the reek, but it was better than wearing nothing. Inside, they found the prison in a state of chaos. People had panicked and dropped what they had been doing during the attack. The floor was riddled with dirty clothes, unfinished food, bullet shells and corpses, not to mention walkers shambling around. Slowly, the duo moved throughout the prison, careful of disturbing their undead neighbors. Even camouflaged as they were, the wariness never left their vigilant senses.

The next unfortunate casualty to be found was Alice. She had been shot several times, neither of the bullets hitting the sweet spot that would have let her remain a still corpse. She stood stock still near the cells, swaying silently to whatever her reanimated brain listened to. A ghost of the soulful and bright woman she once had been, now reduced to nothing but a thoughtless cadaver.

Samara hissed as the need to cry and rage curled her fingers into painfully tight fists. How did this happen? Did the people led by the Governor burst inside and just opened fire, killing everyone in their sights like animals? Alice had seen it happen and probably suffered for it. The location of the bullets holes had assured her a few slow, agonizing minutes of suffering before she succumbed to oblivion.

With a swift and practiced move of her arm, the Native stabbed the one once called Alice in the head. Slowly, she lowered her body down to the floor, her undead vigil having come to an end.

_You're at peace now. Goodbye, Alice._

Samara looked over to Merle helplessly. What was there to do, her gaze pleaded with him mournfully. So much blood. So many dead. She was _lost_.

Merle's only answer was to press on through the graveyard that had been their home. No matter how bleak it looked, they had to _know_.

Their steps echoed like drum beats in the eerie stillness of the building. Where life once flourished through its corridors, it now lay silent and forlorn, the prison having returned to its roots. This was a cursed place now, haunted by the poor souls ripped violently from the comfort of their shelter. If Samara listened intently, she could almost hear their lamentation over their far too short time on this earth. Nobody had been spared the Reaper's scythe—the adults, the old, the young. Samara had to look away whenever they came across the body of a child. There were some images on this godforsaken earth that Samara could never get used to, nor did she wish to.

The more they searched, the less corpses they came across and instead the number of walkers increased. When it came to entering the Tombs, Samara downright refused. She'd rather not be ambushed by walkers in the dark and besides, nobody sane enough would try to hide in that deathtrap unless forced to. Safety was outside, past the prison's fences.

Samara paused by her old cell. It was as empty as the day she had left. She could almost hear them, the memories she had had of her little niche of the prison. The moments with Michonne and Andrea conversing over everything and nothing, drinking the wine Michonne had given her as a peace offering. The awkward, but oddly comforting moments shared with Daryl in the quiet darkness…

Her eyes shifted upwards. His cell was on the upper level and despite the dread tearing at her chest, she knew she had to climb those stairs. She _had_ to see.

With trembling fingers, she pushed aside the curtain shielding his private space and peered inside, tomahawk ready for any danger. The younger Dixon had never been one to decorate. He believed in simple living and the need for only basic necessities. His cell remained almost the same as Samara remembered it. The pelts on the wall were a cozy touch, more having to do with the man's hunter roots than aesthetic reasons. The added books lying next to his bed were a surprise to the woman. She did not remember Daryl being an avid reader. Maybe it was a Dixon thing to pick up a literary habit later on in life.

With stiff limbs, she sat on the abandoned bed, the weight in her stomach drastically increasing to nauseating levels. It was cold inside the cell and lonely. A sense of claustrophobia assaulted her as she stared at the dull, grey walls.

_Where are you? I know you escaped from here. You're not the type to die so quickly._

He had to be out there in the forest, fleeing from the graveyard that had been his home once. Alone and with no hope as his friends and home had been burnt to ash.

_Did it feel like the world ended? Like Fate decided to punish you? _

She could not even fathom what must be swimming around in his mind at the moment, but there was one thing she did know—survivor's guilt hurt worse than any open wound. Matters of the mind and heart never healed entirely, only dulled with time to acceptable intensities. Unlike his brother, Daryl was more emotional and took matters to heart with a surprising passion.

_Don't lose hope. You didn't when we were fighting against the Governor. You didn't with me…Don't lose hope now._

Her eyes fell on the books next to his bed and a spark of surprise lightened up the dreary world around her. 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. It was amongst her favorites.

A phantom of a smile passed over her lips.

Samara's fingers glided over the pillow's wrinkles, feeling the smooth material. Even after so many months, she still remembered his scent—earthy with a touch of wood and leather. A fresh smell that reminded her of the woods in the early hours of the morning, dew still clinging onto grass and birds resounding with their sweet melodic tune.

She could not remain, Samara knew with deep sadness. She wished she could bask in familiarity just a while longer, but it was time to leave. They had found no other bodies of notice and would continue their search on the outside. Her time at the prison had come to an end.

_Wherever you are right now, know that I won't give up until I find you all. _

_Wait for me._

Merle waited for her downstairs. Impatience was clearly written all over his features, but Samara took no notice. She took in her surroundings and tried to peer past the blood and death and see the better days she and the people she cared for had shared in this building—the laughter, the tears, the joy, the sadness, the anger and despair….Even with all that they still picked themselves up and walked on, leaving the demons wailing in the past. Strength had never left their spirits even when they had been brought down to their lowest. She just hoped that the survivors reached for their strength to keep on moving, keep on living with a tight grasp despite the darkness blinding them.

Even in the dark, a tiny ember of hope could always be found no matter how fragile.

_Please, gods. Don't let me find anymore dead._

* * *

Samara pulled off her mask once they hit the outside fresh air and gulped on the air. That smell would remain with her for some time, and considering her luck, it probably embedded itself into her clothes. Samara had been in some smelly situations, but this rightfully took its place among the top. Merle wasn't in any better shape as he spat and gagged, cursing the awful smell to a hell of lavender and roses.

The Native looked back on the prison. Without its people to animate it, it now remained just another abandoned building in the wasteland. Soon, nature would reclaim it and bury the bones left behind, leaving no trace of the brutality and death. Even in the face of destruction, life still managed to find a way to bloom.

Back on their feet, the duo searched the grounds between the buildings, slowly closing up on the baseball field. The number of corpses were few to Samara's instant relief and she hoped none would be found more, but matters never did go the way one wished for. The moment they came upon the bloodied baby seat, Samara wished she had braved the Tombs instead.

With a sharp inhale, the woman vomited her meager breakfast on the pavement, no longer able to control her willpower. It had reached its crescendo. The sound attracted the attention of a few lone walkers, but Merle took care of them swiftly and urged the heaving Samara onward, fearing any more attention on them.

"Move your feet, dammit!"

Samara spat and coughed, eyes red from the strain as a massive tension pressured her skull. She felt like her brain was trying to escape the confines of her head and implode on itself as the image forcefully remained drilled into her eyes. Even with the increasing distance, she could still see it vividly _crimson_. Did _he_ know that his baby was dead, ripped apart and devoured by walkers with not even a scrape left behind? She hoped to her gods that he didn't. If Rick was still alive out there, he was better off in complete ignorance.

_Oh gods_.

Her mind continually cycled around the dark image, firing up her already scarred heart. Samara had known even before the baby had been born that her chances of survival had been slim, but actually seeing it uncovered a deep, profoundly bleeding part of her that should have never seen the light of day again. A momentary lapse, but one that cost her dearly.

"Snap out of it!"

Samara pulled away from the man, snarling with mental pain. He did not understand. To him it meant nothing, just another tragedy in their ugly world. One that he had seen time and time again, but to Samara…

"Just…let me breathe for one second. Let me think."

"We ain't got the time for that!" He snarled back, his increasing impatience waking his aggression. "I need to find my brother!"

"_Daryl's_ not here!"

"That's what I'm tryin' to prove, idiot!" He shook the frenzied woman, not in the mood to deal with her down-spiraling emotions. "We need to check every body there is."

"No, we don't! Can't you see? Daryl escaped."

"How can you know?"

"Look at the corpses we saw until now." Samara wiped the vomit off her chin with the bit of trench coat that wasn't spattered with walker blood. Some semblance of sanity began to crawl back into her feverish mind, soothing it to reason. She had to keep talking. Keep explaining with logic lest she lapsed back into insanity. "The Governor's dead. The next we saw were the weak and the old. Alice, Hershel and…" Samara choked on the name. She knew exactly who that baby seat had belonged to, but did not have the will to utter it. "A-And all the other Woodbury people who couldn't fight another human if it meant their lives. I don't know who won in the end, but either way, both sides lost the prison. What matters is that the _bus_ is missing. People escaped and I _know_ Daryl is one of them. We have to find that bus."

Merle nodded after a short pause, following her optimistic line of thought. They did not remain to search for supplies, but they did gather whatever compatible ammunition they found as they walked back towards the forest.

Samara felt like she was on morphine, walking on numb and weightless legs. The sight of that baby seat had felt like a punch to the temple, leaving her dazed and confused. Deep in her mind, she understood that what she was experiencing was deep shock, but her body wouldn't cooperate so Samara found refuge in the only way she knew when reality became too much to bear—she shut down.

As they passed the broken fences, both Samara and Merle's attention was diverted to the headless body lying in the grass with its hands tied behind its back. The Native approached the convoy of trucks where the body lay and stared at it with a chilling numbness. She had gone past the point of being stunned anymore and scrutinized the body with a clinical eye. Even without seeing proof, she realized the identity of the mutilated man.

—Finding Tyreese's head did not prove to be a difficult challenge.

She stared into his faded eyes with an empty heart. His death had been violent and cruel from the repetitive chopping marks on the back of his neck. A poor execution, but someone had had the decency to put him out of his undead misery judging from the stab wound.

An ugly, painful death. One that someone like Tyreese did not deserve.

_Goodbye_.

Guiding herself only by Merle's footsteps, Samara followed like an obedient sheep. There was nothing she could do for him or for any of the dead except to give them her farewells. Life was unfair and cruel, Samara had experienced it firsthand and so did all those that remained alive despite the many hardships. _They_ were the unlucky ones, not the ones that passed into the unknown. They were still here, enduring the pain one step at a time; feeling the misery carve a deep crevice into their soul, never once letting the memories fade. They became a part of them, molded the very essence and spat out a malformed version one couldn't even recognize in the mirror.

_Goddamn you, Governor. Goddamn you to the darkest pits of Hell._

* * *

The truck door opened with a rusty screech as Samara and Merle approached.

"What happened out there?" Rosita asked over Abraham, startled over their sudden and ghastly appearance. The ashen faces and stiff spines of the two hunters were enough indication of what had happened, but the women pressed for information. The duo had been gone for more than five hours and just returned with blood and bits of flesh hanging off their clothes, and ghoulish expressions. Answers were greatly needed.

Merle shook his head angrily as he lit up a cigarette. "Place's gone."

Rosita seemed to deflate as she moved back in her seat, muttering a quiet apology. Eugene, forever awkward around any display of emotion, seemed to retreat further into his silence while Abraham proved to be his polar opposite as the rock in their little group.

"I'm sorry, Merle. I know he was—"

The glare shot his way was scathing. "I said the place was gone, _not_ my brother."

Samara walked past Merle and climbed into the bed of the truck. Without a word she began picking up her meager belongings, throwing Merle's down to him.

Abraham watched with silent understanding. "What're you gonna do?"

"We part ways here, Abraham." Samara flatly said as she hopped down the truck. There was a mechanical aspect to her movements, almost without personality. "We need to go find our people. Some of them are still alive, I _feel_ it. I know we said we'd escort you to Washington, but things chance."

"Wait, you can't just go by yourselves." Rosita interjected, worry etching faint frown lines over her smooth forehead.

"Honey, we've been by ourselves for a long ass time." Merle winked at her without the usual devilish boldness he possessed. Hollowness did not suit the man at all. "We got it."

"I know you can, it's just—Goddammit, Abraham, we can't just let them leave! We need each other!"

"If they have to go, let them go." Eugene interjected from his side of the truck, eyes on the road than on the drama nearby. "We are not their keepers and we still have to get me to Washington."

"Eugene is right."

"How do you even know which way they went?" Rosita asked the two hunters, waving off the men's callousness. "They could be anywhere. You can't track something you don't even know where to begin looking."

"The group had a school bus and we didn't see it when we came upon the prison. We're going to search for it."

A light seemed to flip inside the Latina and her words came out more animatedly. "That means they didn't go the way we came here. So that only leaves going _forward_."

"Meanin' south which is out of the question." Abraham interjected, not happy with the direction of the conversation. "Our destination is in the north, not the opposite."

"Abraham, the tank is almost empty. We need to find some fuel. Going south for just a little while won't affect the mission."

"Another goddamn detour!" Abraham cried in frustration. He had been from the beginning against the idea of breaching Georgia, much less even be in the vicinity of it. They should have drove in a straight line towards Washington, but with the addition of Samara and Merle, his plan had taken a backseat to accommodate his new companions and Rosita's insistence. "No, we can't risk—"

"We _need_ fuel." To their collective surprise, Eugene put his foot down. "Otherwise we're going to be stuck in Georgia longer than necessary. We should find some gas and after that…" His gaze slid towards Merle and Samara without a shred of empathy. "You two are on your own."

"Fine by me." Merle said as he threw his bag pack back over the bed's side.

* * *

Samara sat rigidly in the back of the truck, shoulders hunched over and head between her knees. Her mind was alive with the buzzing of thoughts, all vying for the center of attention and eating away at the last defenses she had against madness. So many people dead. Hershel, Alice, Tyreese, Judith, and for what? A building? Revenge? How far down the rabbit hole did the Governor fall that he had to go to these extremes? Samara too had found herself on the edge of the precipice on many occasions, but she had never had the courage to take that leap. Woodbury had been the last straw and if she had followed up on her rash instincts, she would have become just another madman once called Philip Blake. Samara had avoided that downward spiral, but the Governor had not been that strong. He had fallen into temptation and returned to his baser instincts. See, want, conquer. It didn't matter how many people died in the process or even if those people were innocent or sinful. They did not belong in his mental picture so they had to be eradicated like bothersome pests.

The battle couldn't have been old. Judging by the state of decay, the bodies had been two maybe three days old. The two hunters had literally missed it by a margin. Maybe if they hadn't stopped in that small town for some rest, or just pushed through that small herd outside La Grange instead of circling around it. Maybe if they had skipped all those tiny, insignificant details they could have arrived on time and maybe turned the tide. Samara did not care about the prison, it was just four walls and a roof, but the people in it…her friends had been irreplaceable.

Hershel had helped her through some tough times. Saved her life back on the farm and then guided her through those painful withdrawals, never once judging her. Once she got to know him better, Samara recognized a gentleness in him similar to that of her own grandfather.

Thump!

Tyreese…Gods, poor Michonne. Her friend must have been devastated. And Sasha. Samara had been an only child, but she could imagine what it would be like losing a sibling, especially the last remaining family one had in this mad world. She hadn't known Tyreese, they had barely conversed even though he was her friend's beau, but she had liked him. He had been good to Michonne, treated her with respect and love and was there for her through that dark time of her life. He had proven himself to be an honorable man. A good soul.

Thump! Thump!

Alice had believed that safety was found at the prison, but no matter how thick the walls or how many weapons they had, Death always found a way. She had been a brave young woman. Compassionate and willing to bloody her hands for the sake of life, even as it head-butted against every fiber of her being. She had been through many unpleasant and downright horrid situations, but even beaten and bruised, she still picked herself up, forever hoping for that silver lining.

A pressure began to painfully compress her heart.

_Goddamn_…Little Judith. A small, fragile creature who couldn't even defend itself. Why kill her? She had done nothing. She had been an innocent.

_She was just a baby._

Nausea broke through her empathy like a battering ram—

_As she woke from the medical induced slumber, Samara peered around the pristine, white hospital room. Her husband was there, but he did not look like his usual upbeat self. From his puffy, red eyes, he had been crying for some time. _

_Why? She just pushed a volleyball out of her vagina after hours of painful labor. He should be high-fiving her for a job well done._

_But as the doctor entered the room with that flat look reserved only for bad news, Samara knew. Every fiber of her being just _knew_._

_The baby. It was— _

"Oh gods." Throwing the sunglasses off her eyes, Samara felt the beginnings of a panic attack claw up her throat. "I think I'm going to be sick!"

"Puke on the side of the truck then!" Merle watched her with a tight grimace.

Samara tried, but nothing came. She simply dry heaved like a dying animal. Her breaths became shorter until only wild gasps left her mouth, sinking her brain in a heavy, thick haze. Samara crawled into a ball and tearlessly sobbed, her only witness a disgusted Merle. She couldn't stop. Her limbs felt numb and her entire body shook in cold sweat. The sorrow had been building up in her chest ever since she laid eyes on the smoke, compressing her heart until it burst uncontrollably.

"We were too late." Samara choked through strained gulps of air, her mind in a fever as thoughts all screamed different words at once. It was so loud she couldn't think straight. "If only we came just earlier. Gods, we were too late!"

Merle's frown deepened as his jaw clenched.

"They're dead!" Samara continued in her frenzy, her voice heightening into a sharp pitch. At that point, reason had flown out of her head leaving her a raving mess. "Goddammit, why did I have to be right? We were too late! They're probably undead food by now or dying somewhere, alone and—"

Merle shifted. A strong hand rolled her over and Samara's face felt the brute impact of a harsh, callous palm sending her to the stars.

"Shut the hell up and listen to me, Samara!" Merle caught her by the lapels of her coat and shook her like an old branch. Fury swam in his cerulean eyes, desperate to take control of the situation. "They ain't dead. Daryl _ain't_ dead. I get it. Those people back at the prison, you cared for them. They were part of your pack, but they dead now. You need to _accept_ it because cryin' like a little kid won't solve a damn thing. You need to get your head straight. We got hard work ahead of us and you _need_ to focus. One wrong move out there and you're the one who'll be dead, and I ain't gonna be the one to deliver that news to my brother. So, quit your bawlin' and pull up your big girl pants. We got some huntin' to do."

His words were like a bucket of ice over her body, cooling down the scorching sensation boiling her insides. The frenzy in her mind died down to an enraged murmur in the back of her skull, finally deflating the pressure and allowing her to breathe. Reason slipped back into her consciousness and Samara slowly straightened herself out, forcing her breath to return to normal. He was right. She could not lose herself to despair now. There were people out there that needed her sane and whole, not a mess of tears and snot. Her defenses needed to strengthen back into a brick wall. She could not relapse to those dark days every time she saw a dead child. She _needed_ to be strong. Be the golem she used to be in the beginning of the plague, no matter how much that displeased her.

She needed to grasp the strength she knew she harbored and use it for the greater good.

Picking up her weapons, she lost herself to the routine—clean the blades, check the weapons, feed the magazine. She needed the clinical, disciplined steps she used to partake in every day for eight years in the army. Routine had been her savior in a world filled with chaos and death, and she hoped it could become her liberator now.

Misery was not an option. Samara had to keep her chin high and search for those embers, no matter how dark the world was. They were there just out of reach, but if she persisted she would catch up to them in no time.

_I'll find you all. I know we'll see each other again someday. _

_Don't give up._

A knock on the back window of the truck disturbed Samara from her profound trance. She had no idea how much time had passed once she became a prisoner to her thoughts, but from the color of the sky it was close to twilight.

"Up front!" Rosita yelled.

Both hunters jumped to their feet and peered into the distance. In the middle of the road, a person fended off a group of walkers while another figure lay on the ground, either dead or unconscious…wearing armor…the kind found in police stations…

_Oh._


	3. Old Faces

"Well?! Did you enjoy the show, assholes?!"

The frazzled woman shouted, her machete held high in her hand. She was ready to fight as she stood protective over the prone form on the ground. To Samara's count, about half a dozen walkers lay unmoving on the pavement, all having fallen prey to this unsung warrior.

Without a moments delay, Samara jumped from the vehicle. She recognized the armored man as if months hadn't separated them and with an overflowing heart, she rushed to his side. Samara couldn't believe her good fortune—could she be this lucky even after the shock she received at the prison?

The occupants of the cabin had already exited and like always, Abraham peacocked in front of the woman, earning himself a sneer. She did not seem amused by his laid back manner.

"Glenn!" Samara ran past the trio and pushed the flabbergasted stranger out of the way. Dropping to her knees, the Native felt her stomach drop at his weak countenance. His skin was sickly white, drawn in by extreme fatigue with sunken eyes and deep shadows underneath. There was blood on his uniform, both black and crimson, while cuts littered his cheeks and forehead.

Overall, he was a right mess.

She turned towards the young woman, eager for positive news. "Is he dead?"

"I—He…"

"Speak up!"

"N-No! No, he isn't!"

Samara checked his pulse, doubting the woman's words. Faint and erratic blood pumped through his veins, proving his living state, but Samara was not appeased. Like a hound, she checked his exposed skin for any bites or infected wounds, but to her relief none were found. Samara felt a huge weight vanish from her shoulders, leaving her dizzy from the frenzy.

"You two know him?" She vaguely heard Abraham's gruff accent.

"Yep, that there's the China—Glenn. His name's Glenn. He's one of the group."

"A-Are you from the prison also?"

Samara appraised the woman now that Glenn was out of immediate danger. Analyzed her like a good hunter would its quarry—Caucasian woman, somewhere in her early 30's, was not afraid to bloody herself and knew how to handle a machete, but there was no mistaking the flashes of trauma present in her eyes. Had she been at the prison during the fierce battle?

"Who are you?" There had been few women of that age bracket that came from Woodbury and she had not been one of them.

"My name's Tara."

"I meant, what're you doing with Glenn and how do you know him?"

The woman fidgeted, a shadow overcoming her features.

"H-He saved me. His people were attacked by a man—"

"The Governor."

Shock morphed her features as she turned to Merle. "You know him?"

"You could say that." He said with a grim look. "You there when the prison got attacked?"

A shudder took over her body, her arms wrapping around her midsection in nausea.

"I didn't know…Who he was…What he had done…He was just _Brian_ to us."

Samara and Merle shared a glance, simple yet filled with understanding—Tara had been on _his_ side.

"He seemed lost so we took him in, me and my sister. He helped us, he protected us and then…we crossed paths with Martinez's group, only we didn't know Brian and he already knew each other." The woman seemed in a trance, the words pouring out of her without respite. "Martinez got bit by the undead. That was what _he_ said. But now…"

Tara shuddered again, a grimace of disgust and shame on her lips.

"He made us _believe_ we had to attack the prison. Fed us a story—"

"Yeah…" Merle scoffed. "He tended to do that."

"—How his people got attacked by this group at a prison." Tara continued as if not even hearing Merle and by the looks of her, she hadn't. The woman was trapped in her hellish nightmare. "How they burned Woodbury to the ground, mutilated him and killed his daughter. He captured one of the people from there. I don't remember his name, but he was black. Forty something maybe."

_Tyreese. _Samara felt her throat constrict.

"And Brian wanted us to help him. To force the people out of the prison because they didn't deserve to be there, but he said he would do it without shedding a drop of blood. He _lied_ straight to our faces and we believed him."

Samara swallowed, her throat's walls rough like sandpaper. Anger boiled underneath her skin the more the woman talked, making her self-control harder to maintain. Her fingers clenched and unclenched rhythmically, undecided if they wanted to bruise flesh or not.

"What happened then?"

"We had a tank. We stormed the fences and then their leader came to talk. He tried to reason with us. He said we were being lied to. That the man we thought was called Brian was in fact a madman dubbed 'The Governor'." Tears of shame pooled on her lashes making her eyes glisten in the afternoon sunlight. "I hid. What we were doing, it wasn't right. It didn't _feel_ right and then…Brian did it."

The tears fell, the floodgates having been opened. Her breath came out in rapid bursts, no doubt her body hyperventilating in response to the emotional backlash. The shock of the brutal onslaught was starting to wear off and reality was settling in, complete with the painful repercussions.

"H-He cut o-off that man's he-head." Tara pushed her palms against the side of her head, desperately wishing not to hear the words rushing out of her. "I can still see it even now. The b-blood gushing…his head on the ground…"

"What then?" Samara cut through her hysteria, hoping to learn more before she down spiraled into a full-blown panic attack. She herself held onto her savage impulses as the stranger recounted Tyreese's death.

_He didn't deserve it. Tyreese had been a kind man. His end shouldn't have been that gruesome. _

"E-Everyone began fighting." She sobbed and sniffled, her words coming out in a jumbled mess. "So many people d-died. My-my sister…my niece…Everyone died except me because I-I ran and hid. Because I was too much of a coward!"

She broke down completely then. Her knees sunk to the ground as she held herself protectively and bawled her eyes out. It was ugly and pitiful, but neither Samara nor the others interfered in her grief. It was her burden to bear, her hell and they could not trespass on it.

Samara wondered if this is what she looked like to Merle when she had her 'fit' earlier. The only difference was that Merle had looked ready to abandon ship while she remained passive to the woman's distress. Even if her heart sunk in from the sorrowful air, Samara maintained an outward cool indifference. She could understand her grief, but Samara would not help, much less comfort her.

It took time until the woman calmed, but her wails of despair attracted several unwanted visitors. The men took care of them swiftly, but from Abraham's furrowed eyebrows Samara knew it was time to move on. They had remained stationary for too long.

Through wet lashes and snot covered nose, Tara looked to Samara.

"I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry." She sniffed as she softly rocked in her stead, tears silently pouring down her cheeks. "So many people died. I never…I never shot anyone. I couldn't."

Samara took in a deep breath, her eyes shutting tight. She did not wish to hear apologies. What she had seen at the prison could not be forgiven with a few words. Alice's undead state, Hershel's death grip on the rifle, the flies hovering above Tyreese's head. Those she could _never_ forget.

What did this woman believed? That if she cried and howled enough her hands would be washed of the blood? Even if she begged on her knees, it still wouldn't change the fact that she took part of that massacre, whether she killed anyone or not. She had followed that madman, never questioning him once.

What was she to do? Her heart battled her mind, caught in an internal struggle on how to resolve the dilemma, but one thing was certain…someone had to _pay_.

"I know my apologies don't count for anything. I know what we _did_ was wrong. I know I'm a horrible human being for bringing in that monster—"

Samara's eyes opened and they were cold as ice. The decision had been cast and set in stone.

"Did you see how many people escaped?"

"I-I saw a bus full of people leave."

"What about a man with a crossbow? You see him?" Merle added, he too with hope in his heart.

"I-I don't know."

The older Dixon cursed, his own despair heightening with each useless piece of news.

Samara, instead, remained neutral. She was content with the fact that the bus escaping was a reality and not a probability. They had a lead now, a factual one. But now came the essential problem…Tara. Samara knew what had to be done and every second counted.

A comforting smile fleshed on her lips even though on the inside she felt anything but reassuring. Her hand rested heavily on the young woman's shoulder and it took considerable willpower not to sink her nails in that bruised flesh.

"Thank you. You were a great help."

—It only took a heartbeat. A skip in time.

Her hand wrapped around the handle at her waist, hesitating for only a moment, before plunging into soft flesh.

Tara stood shock frozen as her horrified eyes traveled downward—there was a knife sticking out of her chest, crimson seeping into the fabric of her blouse.

"I…"

Ruby red blood gushed passed her parted lips as life fled from her body. She caved in and fell to the cold pavement, short and pained gasps escaping her lungs as they desperately fought to keep her body alive even as blood choked them. Dying embers fleeted about in her eyes before whole darkness took over, extinguishing the last burning sparks.

—What had been Tara once, was now an empty husk, bleeding on the deserted lane like roadkill.

Silence thundered among the ones with still beating hearts. Samara did not even need to turn to know that half of them were experiencing shock while the other half observed in silent scrutiny. As the Native watched the blood pool underneath the now dead woman, a burning dread began to climb up her throat. The image before her struck a deep chord and Samara felt the ramifications of her actions.

_This feels wrong._

"What did you do?!" Rosita's outburst disturbed some birds that had been chirping in the trees, sending them in surprised flight.

Samara had no answer as her words remained stuck in her throat. She herself had no idea, she had just acted on what her rational mind had concluded—the woman had been hand-in-hand with the man that destroyed her home and killed her friends, never mind the countless other atrocities he had committed. Why should she be spared? Because she apologized? Words do not wash bloodied hands. They do not rest the angry and wailing souls that had been extinguished in greed, spite and ignorance. They do not help the ones still shambling about, mindless and forever hungry, knowing no eternal rest.

—Tara deserved far worse than a quick death, but why wasn't her heart cooperating then?

Samara quickly squelched her howling emotions and pressed them back into the darkened depths. There was no time to waste on feelings as the more they lingered the more the bus drove further away. Clinically, she retrieved the knife and turned to Abraham.

"Can you take him to the truck?"

There was a shrewdness about the giant ginger as he peered as Samara with a thoughtful gaze, but nonetheless he obliged with her request. Lifting Glenn's unconscious body like he weighted nothing, he walked to the back of the truck without a word. Nothing had been said of her vicious display, but Samara had seen the understanding in his eyes. It seemed Abraham was no stranger to violent vengeance.

"Abraham?!" Rosita's high-pitched yell did not disturb the man's walk. "Are you just going to let this slide?"

"Yeah, and so will you. It ain't our business." He called back sharply, firm in his stance and expecting no backtalk.

Rosita stood helpless as her gaze shifted between the dead woman, Samara and her man. The Native could see the rage fester under her skin, but feeling the futility in letting it out. She could howl and cry, but it seemed it would fall on deaf ears.

"She dug her own grave when she sided with the Governor, chica." Merle said, unsympathetic to the stranger's early demise. "That's just how it is."

"Not like that." She snarled disgusted before turning to Samara. "You could've found another way that didn't involve killing her. You're just fucking sick!"

Rosita spat some foul curses in Spanish before returning to the truck, Eugene right on her tracks. The man had remained frozen the entire time, his eyes glued to the liquid life coloring the pavement. Samara had no idea what fishes swam through his head as no matter how hard she tried, she could not read him. The man had the most impenetrable gaze she had ever encountered. But for once, Samara had been able to detect the traces of disturbance before they retreated back in the depths of his being.

Remaining only with Merle, Samara did not pay him heed as her gaze stayed transfixed on the corpse. In the hornet nest that was her mind, Samara latched onto the one conscious thought that did not give her grief—Tara would soon reanimate, but Samara would not allow it. One less of _them_ in this world was a win in her book…or at least that was what she told herself.

Stabbing her in the head, Samara then retreated back to the truck. Merle followed, but said nothing of her actions and she was too far gone in her head to care at the moment. Settling next to the unconscious Korean, the Native noticed with frustration that her heart beat harder than normal. Even her hands did not escape the onslaught as they trembled uncontrollably. With a heavy swallow, she closed her fingers into tight fists, wishing the tremors away.

_Dammit._

No matter how hard she tried, the guilt would not leave her. It stuck like a leech, draining the energy she still had left. Shame bled from her chest, poisoning her veins with hot discomfort. Samara could feel the wrongness of her actions, but it had been done. There was no turning back and Samara would not second-guess herself—it had been the right decision. The _only_ one. That woman had helped _him_ bring death and destruction to her home. People she cared about were dead because of her naiveté and Samara could not forgive that no matter how much time passed.

Her heart be damned.

* * *

Eyelids fluttered.

Samara waited patiently as Glenn returned to the conscious world, making sure his first image was that of a long lost comrade.

"Rise and shine, kid."

His stared in confusion, the haze in his mind clouding his judgement. But as consciousness creeped up, Glenn began to connect the dots between the speaker and the familiar features.

"Sa-Samara?" He looked downright flabbergasted, prompting the Native to smile in delight.

"We have to stop meeting like this, Glenn. It's starting to become a trend."

His mouth remained open, dumbstruck by this miracle. The Korean hadn't changed much since she'd last seen him almost a year ago, his hair suffering the most transformation. It seemed the young man ditched his cap in favor of long tresses. Even his beard and mustache seemed to have lengthened in her absence.

Samara was the first to act. She hugged him like a long lost brother, not even dissuaded that he remained still like a statue in her arms. He was alive, that was all that mattered.

The moment the shock wore off, Glenn clung to her like a baby monkey. Samara had never been much of a hugger, but this was a moment that could be overlooked. She was happy and from the force of Glenn's grip, he was blissful too.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you alive!" Glenn laughed, but his chortle soon twisted into mournful sniffles. "The prison…"

"We saw. We were there."

Glenn's eyes popped like golf balls at the familiar, gruff voice.

"M-Merle? What are you—" The Korean then turned to Samara incredulously. "Wait. Were you two together this _whole_ time?"

"Oh gods, don't say 'together'. It makes it sound _weird_. It's more like he tagged along when I left."

Merle faked an unhappy pout to Samara's exasperation.

"Oh, don't be like that, darlin'. After all the fun times we had. You're gonna hurt my feelin' now."

"Point is, dickhead here came along with me. Was _supposed_ to be until Nevada, but like the leech he is, he never left. So, we've been on the road since."

"Good times." Merle chuckled.

That nerve at the side of her temple pulsated, but Samara chose to ignore the older Dixon in favor of the armored young man who teetered on the brink of a break down.

"Glenn, who else escaped the prison?"

"I don't know. I woke up and Tara was—" Startled, he looked around. "Where's Tara?"

"Tara's _dead_." Samara blurted out, perhaps a tad too quickly. "Those walkers you were fighting, she got bit while trying to protect you. She…didn't want to turn into them so I _helped_ her."

The half-truth spiced with misdirection effortlessly rolled off her tongue. Glenn didn't need to know the truth. Samara planned to tell him...someday…way later when they found the rest of the group, but by Glenn's shifting mood, it might not even be necessary. He did not seem deeply troubled by Tara's demise, more surprised than mournful and he soon returned to his somber outward appearance.

Samara felt a piercing gaze drill into the back of her head, but she ignored it. If Merle had something to say about her actions or lies, he was more than invited to on a later note. Knowing that the man was not inclined to share words about feelings, it seemed unlikely that a talk would ever happen.

"Who's driving this truck?" Glenn peered through the back window of the cabin, seeing three unknown people.

"Some folks we met along the way to Georgia." Merle's gaze settled intently on the young man. "You seen Daryl?"

Glenn shook his head. "I don't know who escaped. I got knocked unconscious during the fight. When I woke up, I only found Tara alive."

"She was with the Governor."

The unspoken accusation was blatant.

"I needed her to get to Maggie. I wasn't in the best of shapes to be walking with so many undead around. Two people are always better than one."

Samara nodded, understanding his motives. Like it or not, Glenn chose safety than the risk of the herd of undead roaming about.

"While you were unconscious, we passed the prison bus. There was no one inside. Not alive, at least. Merle recognized some of them as the Woodbury people. Maggie wasn't there and neither was any of the others."

The Native had approached that bus with high trepidation, the sight of its upturned self not inspiring any confidence. To her utmost relief, she hadn't recognized any familiar faces among the mangled, withered undead ones, but it left her with the open question—where were the others?

"Maggie wouldn't be there, either ways."

Both Merle and Samara sobered up instantly. The young man knew something they didn't.

"When the Governor attacked, I told Maggie to head for her father's farm in case things went south. She should be there…I hope."

Samara felt her heart lift in high spirits. _Finally, some good news. _

With a heavy knock on the window, she turned to the driver.

"Change of plans! We have a location!"

* * *

The truck drove down the beaten path familiar to both Glenn and Samara. Memories of what felt like ages past assailed them with vengeance. The farm elicited diverse sets of emotions for both of them—sadness, anger, joy. A cavalcade of extremes that had their hearts beat faster than usual.

The forest cleared and the white house came in sight. It remained the same as Samara remembered it. Forlorn and deteriorating to the tick of the passing time. The only difference was the jeep parked outside the house.

"Recognize the car?" Samara passed her binoculars to Glenn.

"Yeah." He said after a peak. "It's one of ours."

Samara tapped against the window. "It's good! Keep on driving!"

The trip to the Greene's farmhouse had been trying. She, Glenn and Merle had talked more in depth about the happenings at the prison, but once the discussion reached his deceased father-in-law, Glenn could not hold the tears in anymore. He broke down completely, the last few days crashing over like an avalanche. Reality finally settled in his traumatized brain that indeed he had lost a great deal number of people, among them friends and family. Samara had let him howl and sob, watched as he shed enough tears for both of them. Not even a comforting hand could have snapped the boy out of his grief so Samara let him exhaust himself. Merle had been of a different mind, though. He had scooted himself as far away as manageable and possibly contemplated jumping out the moving truck just to escape the oppressing air of wretchedness.

It had been a pitying sight to behold. Glenn had matured from that skittish, fearful boy in Atlanta into a fearless and wise man, but even adults broke down and reverted to their helpless child persona. It was only human after such a devastating blow, but it still rubbed Samara the wrong way. She never enjoyed the sight of strong men crying.

It took a great deal of effort for Glenn to calm down, to let all that accumulated sorrow wash away into a pool of numbness. With his heart empty, he lay still, his eyes lost on the distant sky. Samara understood his heart as she had treaded that gloomy place many times before. Knew what it felt to be completely detached as survivor's guilt rampaged through the soul. It would take time, but Glenn would recover. He was still young and his heart was not yet willing to give up completely, not as long as he still had hope, and his hope took the form of a freckled, daring farm girl.

The jeep came to a stop.

Samara surveyed the area for threats, but it remained as quiet as she had left it a year ago. Her eyes traveled to the desolate grave stones, a spark of nostalgia igniting her heart. Even after more than a year, she still could not forget her furry companion. He might not frequent her mind anymore, but whenever the memory of him did, warmth fueled her veins.

Without before thought, Glenn ran up to the house.

"Maggie!"

Samara's heart jumped as she heard faint noise from behind the door. The heavy sound of boots broke the silence as they ran. The door opened with a timeworn squeak to reveal Maggie Greene.

She looked the same as Samara remembered, her hair only a tad bit longer. The Native felt an intense relief at the sight of her alive and in one piece.

_Another one back in the fold._

"Glenn!"

She jumped into her husband's arms and they kissed with ardor. The sight of her husband had made her blind to the presence of the other two people along with him, but Samara did not mind. Seeing their reunion reignited the hope that smoldered in the wake of the prison's carnage.

However, Maggie's happiness twisted into despairing tears.

"Daddy…he's dead…I saw him die…and I don't know what happened to Beth…"

Her grief touched Samara's own damaged heart. The day she received the news of her father's death had been a dark time. The shock of it had left her numb and empty. Even after the funeral she had remained afloat, just grazing the bubble of reality. What Maggie was despairing through was the 'rupture'—the feeling of being the last living survivor of the family. The clear knowledge that she would be alone from that point on was enough to break her heart in a thousand pieces. Even a significant other's presence could not alleviate the pain of losing those that raised and cared for you; that sacrificed everything; that, no matter what, loved unconditionally.

Glenn could not replace the father and sister she lost. He could only be there for her as she braved the devastating storm to peaceful shores on her own.

To Samara's surprise, two other people emerged from the house—

Andrea and Dale.

The Native stared as the blonde's flabbergasted attention switched from Glenn to Merle and then to her.

"…Samara?"

The woman in question smirked, a touch of nostalgia knocking her way. "Hey, blondie."

Within moments, Andrea was upon her, hugging her to her full might. Samara buckled under the added weight and fell on her behind, Andrea still clinging to her like a child. The Native did not mind, seeing her friend again felt like coming home at last.

In the background, Samara heard a lewd snicker coupled with a whispered 'that's what I'm talkin' about'.

Merle's perverse merriment did not bother her. Her friend was alive. She had escaped the onslaught. Bruised and scrapped, but still kicking.

"You goddamn son of a bitch!" Andrea smiled from ear to ear, the slash on her cheek still visible even after more than a year. "You came back right in the middle of the storm, didn't you?"

"You know I like making an entrance."

Andrea chuckled, but soon that laughter dissolved into pained sobs.

"It's gone. Everything's _gone_, Samara. Our home…Our friends…The dream's dead."

Samara felt her heart break in response to Andrea's sorrow, hugging her tighter. Andrea had been the most attached to the idea of a home and she had found it at the prison along with the people she braved the apocalypse with even from the beginning. Seeing that home destroyed and the people she considered her family die must have been a major blow to her faith for the possible bright future.

—Nowhere was safe, their lives only temporary.

"I'm sorry."

A shadow engulfed the two women and Samara felt gentle hands pry the blonde off her. Dale smiled softly at Samara, but the pain behind it could not be concealed. It hung around his neck like a noose. The aged lines on his face were more prominent than she remembered, the optimistic shine he used to carry in his eyes now reduced to mere cinders.

"Welcome back, Samara."

Samara smiled back and hugged the last living grandfather of the group_._

"Nice ponytail." Samara chuckled.

The old man's hair had grown quite long, stuffed into a short ponytail at the back of his head. His infamous bucket hat shadowed over it, but the ends peaked out from under it in salt and pepper colors.

Dale's gaze moved towards the man standing a distance away, that sad smile still on his lips.

"It's nice to see you too, Merle."

The man merely grunted in return, not impressed with the reunion.

"Where's my brother?"

"We don't know. We three barely got out of the chaos. If it hadn't been for Hershel..." Dale inhaled, the wrinkles deepening on his face with hurt. "He stayed behind so we could escape."

"Goddammit!" Merle cursed in frustration.

The mention of Hershel seemed to deepen the farm girl's grief as she burrowed deeper into Glenn's arms. Nothing appeared to snap her out of her despair.

The old veterinarian had taken his last stance. He had sacrificed himself for the life of his daughter. Samara held nothing but respect for the man. He may have picked some questionable choices in the past, but never without the safety of his family in mind.

Samara saw Dale's gaze travel past them towards the truck, his interest peeked.

"Who're they? Friends of yours?"

"Long story." Samara rose to her feet with the sniffling Andrea in tow. "We should go inside. We have some talking to do."

_A lot._

* * *

They stood in the living room, everyone finding a piece of furniture to recline on. Samara listened to Dale's story with a keen ear. Trouble had infiltrated the group long before the Governor showed his face again. Two weeks before the Governor came, a flu had spread throughout the prison sickening many of the residents and even killing some. Karen had been one of the victims, someone in the prison having shot and burnt her to a crisp, but the most shocking demise had been Sasha herself.

Sasha had gotten the flu along with her boyfriend Chris a week prior to the prison's destruction. As he neared death, Chris began hallucinating from the fever and somehow figured that Sasha should join him in the Afterlife. He murdered her, shooting her in the head but then couldn't even kill himself as a moment of clarity dissolved the fever's irrationality.

He did not live long after as Tyreese pulled the metaphorical trigger for him. He strangled Chris upon seeing Sasha's dead body, suffocating him to death. He then did it a second time when he reanimated, but took his time. He had wanted Chris' undeath to last.

"Tyreese never recovered from it." Andrea added, her face strained in heavy mourning. "He didn't even fight when the Governor threatened us with his life. He just stood there, _lifeless_. He just accepted what was about to happen."

Samara clenched her fists in resentment. _Goddamn it all to Hell._

"We moved on after the funeral. We _had_ to. The flu was still rampant and we had to find a way to save ourselves before everyone got sick, and then the Governor appeared. Jesus Christ…" Andrea closed her eyes in pained aggravation. "If there was one man I never wished to see in my entire life again I'd be him. He came back from the dead just to finish us off and this time, he accomplished his _dream_. He took our home away. Burnt it to ashes. We fought as long as we could, but then the walkers came. We couldn't fight the Governor's men _and_ a herd. Everyone ran in different directions. We don't know who got out alive or who didn't, except for Tyreese and…"

Andrea wouldn't utter his name as it would send Maggie spiraling into another bout of hysteric crying.

Poor Tyreese. Losing his sister and then himself being executed in such a brutal fashion. Samara wept for him and Sasha, and their untimely death. It just showed that no one was spared from the Reaper's scythe and that death came when one least expected it.

"Alice." Samara uttered in the silence that followed. They had to know. "Merle and I, we searched the prison for any familiar faces. Alice was one of them. She got shot."

"Was she a walker?" Dale's bushy brows furrowed.

Samara nodded, remorseful for having to deliver yet another horrible piece of news. Claws raked at her throat as she knew she had to divulge the other death she had found on the prison grounds.

"We…" Samara cringed at the memory. "Also found Judith. Or better said, we found her baby chair. It was covered in blood."

Andrea clenched her jaw in pain, hiding her face in her palms. Dale said a prayer underneath his breath and Maggie began tearing up once again.

The air hung heavy over the spacious living room, probably why Merle preferred to stand by the threshold. Samara felt like suffocating as heat climbed from the tips of her toes all the way to her forehead. Grief was as infectious as the epidemic they all dreaded, but after all this time it should have been just another fact of life. In the end, nobody got to survive the virus as all of them, in time, will succumb under its spell. They should have been jaded to it by now, but they stubbornly clung to that frustrating branch called humanity.

_I came back just in time, didn't I?_

Samara joined in the piercing silence and prayed to her Gods for the deceased safe passage in the next life. It was the least she could do.

* * *

Samara sat on the windowsill in Beth's former room, smoking a cigarette before the semi opened window. Night had settled over the peaceful farm and the woman could not sleep despite the exhausting day she had lived through. Andrea was as restless as her roommate as she sat in a chair near the window, starring into the darkness with a pensive air.

Samara scrutinized her hand, her fingers lightly running over the palm that had held the knife. The tremors were now a thing of the past, but her mind questioned the reason for its appearance. She hadn't shivered like that since she chose her decision regarding the Woodbury survivors. Samara could not say she was pleased with its return as it carried along a plague of doubts that strictly target her sanity.

_I did the right thing…right?_

"Do you believe it?" Andrea broke the silence, her voice soft in the dark. "That Eugene can save us?"

"Fuck no." Samara let her hand fall, refusing to further dwell on the matter. The woman was dead. Period. "There's no cure. Eugene is either delusional or an expert liar and I'm betting on the latter."

"Then why are you helping them?"

"Because my path leads me through Washington. I figured a group had better chances than two people."

"So, you weren't coming back. You were just _visiting_."

Samara heard the accusation and tasted bitterness on her tongue. Andrea was hinting that, like times past, Samara only thought of herself first. She couldn't be further than the truth.

"There's something I have to do."

Something that she could no longer put off no matter how far away she ran. The issue had to rest, whether she liked it or not.

Andrea reclined in her seat with a tired sigh.

"You know, we've talked all day and I never got to ask how you were."

Samara smirked. "I'm good. Better now that I've seen you guys again."

"You know…" Her voice took on a thoughtful tone, almost too low to hear. Almost as if afraid of the darkness hearing. "At one point, Michonne and I just about lost hope that you'd ever return. Some did, actually. I can't even count the number of times I caught myself looking out over the road for a sign and every time, there was nothing."

"I know, I know. I should've come back earlier." Samara cringed in shame. "I'm sorry. I'm an asshole."

"Good thing you know, saves me the trouble." Andrea huffed in indignation before eyeing her with curiosity. "What did you do out there? Where did you go?"

"West. We traveled through all the states from here to Arizona, to my hometown. We settled there for a while." A film hooded Samara's eyes as memories of Arizona were brought to the forefront of her mind. "After, we left for Nevada but that was a bad idea. Goddamn Merle and his dreams of roulettes. Next was the 'City of Angels'. It was fun there despite the many walkers. I even saw the ocean."

"Did you swim in it?"

Samara snorted. Did she have to ask?

"Felt good, didn't it?" Andrea smiled knowingly.

"It was _perfect_." Samara joined in the light-hearted mood. "I just wish I had someone there to enjoy it with."

"Wasn't Merle there?"

"Someone _other_ than Merle."

Andrea chuckled at her flat expression. Samara looked over her friend in curio. She appeared the same Andrea she had known almost a year ago, only a few differences changing her memory of her appearance. Before, Andrea had preferred keeping her hair loose, but now with its added length it became a nuisance and so its fate led to a high ponytail. It suited her, Samara thought. Andrea had a fair face and her abundant mane had only hid it from sight. A red bandana was tied around her neck and from its appearance, it had been there for quite a while. Even with the added changes, Samara reveled in the familiarity of the woman. She was the same brave, compassionate and loyal woman she had met all those seasons ago.

"How is traveling with the Dixon patriarch like?" Andrea smiled with a teasing undertone. "He strikes me as an 'eccentric' guy to have around."

"Oh gods, it was like travelling with a reckless man-child who got his kicks out of dirty innuendos and constantly irritating me." Samara grimaced, her hands articulating her displeasure.

That was only brushing the surface of the creature called Merle. His entire being was like an onion—the more you peeled, the more layers you came across. Samara was far from peering at his core, but every now and then she tore away at a layer. He was interesting, she could not lie about that.

"Sounds like you had fun." Andrea chuckled at her petulance. Her amusement turned to reflectiveness as she stared at Samara's face with wonder. "By the way, what's up with the war paint? It's been puzzling me ever since I saw you. Did you go back to your roots, Samara?"

A faint smile graced her lips as she fondly touched the rough stripes.

"It started in Arizona, in my hometown…"


	4. Miles Apart

It was early in the morning when she came upon the arguing pair. Samara lingered near the entrance of the kitchen, listening in on their whispers.

"I'm glad that you found some of your people, but I think it's high time we left." As ever, Abraham was hell-bent on reaching Washington in the least amount of time. "If you still wanna tag along you're more than welcome, Merle."

"I gotta find my brother, Abe. He's out there somewhere. If those four upstairs made it out alive then my brother _definitely_ ain't dead."

In Merle's mind, if the mediocre survived then his brother, who was at the top of the pyramid, must have made it without a scratch. Didn't Merle know that the strong and compassionate were the first to leave the world? Sacrificing their lives for the greater good was in itself all the reward the hero type needed. She just hoped Daryl hadn't attempted it, not even as an idea.

Samara walked from behind the wall, as nonchalant as if she had just woken up. She did not even try to hide the fact that she had spying.

"You decided then?" Samara took a sip from a water bottle, her eyes intent on Abraham. It didn't surprise her that he was already with his mind on the road. The giant never stationed in one place for too long.

"We leave today. I can't delay the mission anymore. You comin'?"

"You know I'm not."

Just as she was about to take another sip, it struck her—

"…But I think I might know some people who might."

* * *

"It would be better if you left."

Everyone had woken and gathered in the living room at Samara's request with the proposition laid bare on the table. Abraham had been right on one matter—more people meant better security and less chances of being at the receiving end of a walker bite. It would do them no good if they sat here, waiting for a miracle. Leaving for Washington was the best idea they could hope for at the moment.

"What about the others?" Glenn frowned in concern. "What if they thought about coming here as well?"

"Nobody else is comin', boy scout." Merle grunted. "We're the only ones."

"Point is, it's safer to be out there on the road, always moving." Samara tried to motivate their downcast faces, but it seemed the mere mention of leaving the familiar nest emphasized their already stressed psyche. "We already have a destination in mind. We know where you'd be going and once we find the others, we'll head in that direction. We'll see each other again in Washington, I have no doubt."

"I don't know, Samara." Andrea crossed her arms, doubt written all over her body language. "If there is one thing I learned from watching horror movies is that people should never split up."

"We _can't_ stay here." Samara strained, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. There was no time to waste on arguing about the subject. "Don't you remember? We lived here for two months. We pretty much scavenged the entire neighboring area of supplies and the nearest cities are too hostile. This is a dead spot."

Samara understood their trepidation. It was a scary thought just picking themselves up and leaving state, forgoing the comfort of Georgia where they had been hiding for the past two years. They had to realize that everywhere else was the same. Georgia was neither special nor different. The undead were everywhere as were survivors like them.

"We should go." Maggie spoke in the overwrought silence. Glenn threw her an incredulous look. She would be the last to suggest such a departure, but the farm girl squeezed his hand with affection. "We don't have a choice anymore, babe. We barely have enough supplies to last us another day."

"The others—"

"How about we leave a message behind with a map of our route?" Andrea suggested. "That way, if they come back here, they'll know where to go."

On reflex, Samara's eyes traveled over to the writing on the wall still visible even after more than a year.

_**Still alive**__._

_Didn't help me, did it?_

"I don't like it either, Glenn." Dale took his bucket hat off and smoothed the wrinkles in it. It seemed to be more of a restless action that anything. "I know it feels like we're abandonin' our friends, but we're literally with our backs against the wall. We can't stay here."

Even if the idea did not bring a smile on his face, Glenn accepted by the end. He did not have to like it, Samara mused. He just had to think of what was best for the few people he still had left. Already, the others looked to him to cast the final decision. As the unofficial leader of their small slice of the Atlanta group, he had to protect them and lead them to a better life.

By midday, everyone was ready to depart. Samara joined Merle on the porch stairs, a map folded in her hand. She had conferred with Abraham about the route he would take so they could follow it when the time came.

Samara did not want her people to leave. She had been reunited with them for a brief moment only to once again split up, but they had no alternative. It was for the greater good. Sticking around the farm would only lead to starvation. They would have better chances out there than stagnating in the Greene's old home.

Andrea walked up to Samara, a stubborn frown on her lips.

"Why can't I stay behind and search with you? You _know_ I'm not gonna slow you down."

"I know, but I need you to stay with the others and keep them safe."

"Maggie and Glenn can do it and that fella Abraham looks like he can handle himself."

_If it was only that easy._

"Abraham is only concerned with Eugene. If he's ever given the choice to leave one of you behind for the sake of the mission, he's going to do it without hesitation. I need you to be there in case shit goes south. Protect the group at all costs."

Andrea sighed in resignation, but Samara knew she would shoulder the task like a soldier. Andrea was not one to back out of a promise.

"And you…" The blonde eyed her friend with a strict glower. "You better come to Washington."

Samara nodded.

"And no nine months this time."

Samara smiled before embracing her friend. Who knew if they would even see each other again and Samara wanted to profit as much as she could from her presence. It was a depressing thought, but honest. They lived in a precarious world, after all.

"Find them." Andrea whispered in her hair, dejected hope pervading her tone. "Make the family whole again."

Samara's arms tightened. She promised. Rain or shine, she would comb as much distance as her body allowed, but if the others were well out of her reach then…

Come what may.

* * *

The road to the prison had been clear to Samara's immediate suspicion. Either the herd had moved on or they all gathered on the prison grounds. Whichever it was, it spelled good news to the duo as they could search in peace for their missing people.

"You take the east while I take the west."

The two hunters locked and loaded near the forest clearing, the car just a short distance away. Their search would take them through the forest and deeper into its bowls.

"The woods is the only option if you wanna run from a herd. Daryl knows that. He's out there somewhere. You know what to look for, Pocahontas."

Boots prints, broken foliage, dead walkers, blood spatter, bullet shells, abandoned arrows. Oh, she knew.

"If you're sure of what you find, you use the Blackbird call immediately." Samara and Merle walked over to the edge of the forest, vigilant of walkers. "Robin call every half hour just to know the other is still kickin'. You get yourself in a pinch, squawk like a seagull and I'll come runnin'."

Samara smirked, but her amusement died within moments. "Seven means time's up. If we don't find anything, we regroup back at the car and start again tomorrow."

_I hope it doesn't come to that._

They both stared at each other, a deep understanding conveyed through their silence.

_Good hunting._

The duo parted ways, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. There was a long search ahead of them and they only had seven hours until sundown. Time was of the essence.

* * *

Squelch!

Merle pulled out a knife from the walker's skull and sighed. Hours of searching and he still hadn't found anything but dead ends or the shuffling undead. The Apache seemed to share his luck since no Blackbird chirp reached his ears.

Desperation rattled his bones. It was Woodbury all over again. Weeks and months searching without avail. Merle just hoped that maybe his brother thought about reaching the farm as well. He had left a message on the wall just for Daryl, overlapping the one already written. Samara had agreed to check the farm every two days, but she would not leave the map. It would be inviting trouble if strangers decided to squat at the Greene's house.

_If you're there brother, just wait._

It had been too long. Merle should have come back sooner, but time flew differently when having fun. It hadn't been all fun and games, though. Merle had witnessed some upsetting things on the road which even to the present remained fodder for his nightmares.

What if he never saw his brother again? A recurring dream of his had been Daryl dying and him not being able to save him, always arriving at the last minute. No matter how hard or fast he tried to reach him, his brother always managed to slip through his fingers and fall into oblivion. It never failed to leave him without a bad taste in his mouth and drenched in a gallon of cold sweat.

Merle tried his best to ignore his sadistic dreams. They were just his worried subconscious slithering to the light. Daryl was still alive. He could feel it deep in his bones.

Further into the forest, he came upon a downed walker and two sets of tracks moving from the body. One adult, one child. The adult had a limp, his heavier weight shouldered by the child as his tracks showed signs of deeper depressions. Just as Merle was about to follow them the Blackbird resounded. It echoed eerily through the silent world, announcing that his partner in crime had found something of interest.

Merle was in a dilemma—on one hand he wanted to follow the tracks he found as the adult ones were about the same size as his brother's, but on the other perhaps Samara had found something conclusive.

With a foul curse, the man marked the place of his find for future exploration and headed towards the call. The distance wasn't vast, but deeper in the woods. After a few failed turns, he came upon the Indian crouching over some charred remains, poking them with a stick.

Merle gazed upon her find—a small, sloppy campfire surrounded by two sets of footprints, small enough to be only children. And the cherry on top? An abandoned, dirty diaper.

"I think Judith's alive."

The Indian stared in the direction the tracks led with uncharacteristic eagerness, but Merle couldn't say that he shared her enthusiasm.

"Goddammit, you called me here for this!" He was beyond aggravated. He had thought that maybe she had found clear signs of Daryl, not some brats. "Look, I found a pair of tracks as well. Adult about Daryl's size and kid going west. We should follow those instead."

"I think two kids and a baby are more important to find."

"Who says? Kids are like china dolls, breakable. They probably dead by now."

"You selfish asshole!" Samara snarled, her teeth flashing with violence. "It's a _baby_! You'd let it die out there? Are you that fucking stupid?"

_Well, looky here. Mother Teresa in the flesh._

He approached Samara, close enough that it could be perceived as threatening.

"Neither one is Daryl's tracks so I don't give a fart, but the ones I found might be his. I'm goin' after the obvious."

"Fine." Samara spat, her lips contorted in a sour grimace. "Go follow the other set, I'll track these down. When I find them, I'll get them back to the car."

Samara disappeared into the withered foliage, not a sound to her sprint. He taught her well, Merle thought with a hint of pride.

_Goddamn crazy squaw!_

If she felt like wasting her time on some soon to be corpses, Merle gave his blessing, but that did not mean he would run alongside her. He had better tracks to follow.

—Then why weren't his feet moving?

He grimaced as he stared in the direction the woman left. The stillness of the forest was haunting, even more so now that he knew he was on his own. Merle massaged his brow, the beginnings of a headache drumming on his temple.

The Apache could be a giant pain in the ass, he swore. He found it insufferable when she got these pangs of…_feeling_. Where her heart overtook what her pragmatic mind demanded. Deny it all she might, but they were becoming regular the more they traveled together. It had been feeble at first, a whisper in the wind. She never even remarked them, unnoticeable as they were, but Merle did. He had no clue what event or words set it off, but Merle made it his goal to keep a closer eye on the situation. Watch as that gentle breeze turned into a howling tempest and no matter how hard he tried to fight against it, it just kept growing in passion. Maybe even because he interfered.

The Indian was slipping and Merle could only sit back and watch as another one fell into the deceiving trap called _humanity_.

"Stupid…"

He saw her back then with that woman. Took note of the hesitation in her body, the minute unwillingness to land the final blow. The Indian never had a problem killing anyone that threatened the safety of herself or her people. He remembered clearly the carnage that ensued from their first meeting, but the person that traveled with him now wasn't the same woman he battled a year ago. This one bore her traits and her facade, but it was simply a mask the fresh being underneath desperately held onto. Because old habits were normal…comforting. People feared the new and mysterious and Samara was no different. She was not yet accepting of her inevitable metamorphosis.

That woman hadn't been the first time the Indian hesitated and he knew it wouldn't be the last. That tiny slither of a doubt would end up killing her one day.

With a growl of frustration, Merle took flight. It wouldn't do if the woman upped and died on his watch because of _feelings_.

* * *

Samara heard him before he showed himself. Merle had a distinctive soft run, like a tiger stalking its prey through the jungle. Heavy, but delicate.

A surprise, indeed, as Merle was not one to back down from his decision.

"If we don't find anyone on this end, we go after my lead, you hear?"

Samara nodded, thankful that the man opted to accompany her on her find.

They walked for a long time. The sun moved on the sky with each kilometer they made. Merle kept the lead while Samara checked the surroundings for any enemies or irregularities. Nothing of note had been found, the two children and baby having moved without hindrance, much to Samara's relief.

Samara took a peak at her companion. She had not expected the turn of events. Merle was not the type to change his mind once set on his path. The fact that he caught up in search of her own lead meant that something must have altered in that lizard brain of his. A change of perspective which Samara could not envision coming from such an unmovable pivot.

Merle stopped.

"Somebody joined 'em." His gruff voice announced. "Size's too small to be male, either teen or female. My bet is on tits."

Samara saw it too. Another set of tracks joined the two children's and headed off in the same direction.

"They knew each other." Samara mused with surprise. "Must've been another survivor from the prison."

Following their wayward prey, the duo reached the railroad tracks only to find more bad news—bodies littered everywhere, both undead and human. Someone had exterminated them and it hadn't been by the hand of one of the dead humans. Knife wounds were present with no evidence of gun play and they had been stabbed in the head to prevent reanimation.

Samara wondered. If it had been a woman that met the children, it could have been Michonne. To take out so many walkers so precisely could only be her blade wielding expertise, but Samara could see no sign of her usual MO. Michonne was prone to remove body parts and behead walkers. She did not simply stab. Samara could only see short blade gashes left from a hunting knife.

_It still could be her. Maybe she lost her sword in the attack._

"Bodies must be four-five days old judgin' by the decay." Merle nudged one of the bodies, a grimace on his face as a cloud of flies raised from the dead. "They got a good head's start."

Samara peered around herself. Nothing but trees, bushes and rusty train tracks could be seen.

"What direction did they take?"

"Now that there's the tricky part." Merle smirked, some part of him enjoying their dilemma. "They could've just followed the tracks or maybe they hauled ass back in the forest."

"No sane adult would go back in there with two kids and a baby. It's easier to lose them and get ambushed at night. Train tracks mean civilization…cities. They must've followed the rails because sooner or later they would've reached a town where they could stock on food and water and have a roof over the baby's head."

"So, marshal…" Merle started, not in the least enthusiastic at the supposed prospect. "Which way then?"

Samara brought out a map from the inner pockets of her coat. The Georgia map was old and had different handwritten pointers scattered over—places they had visited and cleared, sites that were overwhelmed with the undead, supplies they had hidden in any eventuality and many others. The hunting duo followed the path they had taken up to the train tracks and searched for the nearest signs of civilization.

"From what I can tell, it's these two towns that're near." Merle pointed on the map. "One's 30 klicks west, the other 20 east."

The knowing look he gave her had no need for words. Samara understood loud and clear—it would be a grueling, long run if they went by foot.

"Or…We could go get the car. Much easier that trekkin' all over these tracks."

"We'd lose too much time getting back to the prison." Night was a few hours away and Samara did not relish the thought of searching in the dark. It was either now or never.

"And we could lose days on foot here lookin' for a ghost." A spark of annoyance creeped in the older Dixon's tone. "You know it's stupid to do this. What if they got off track, huh? Got jumped and had to run in the forest? Let's cut our losses here and get back to the tracks I found."

It was a reasonable proposition. Searching in the dark would be a foolish endeavor, not to mention dangerous, and if Samara thought of the situation in practical terms then tracking down two kids, a baby and an adult did not seem like quite the prize. The children were hazardous to their survival; one mistake and that baby would scream its head off, attracting a herd over their heads. Merle's find seemed like the safest option…

—But Samara did not want to think in practical terms.

"Go back to the car and drive up to the town in the west." Samara's tone hardened as she folded the map back in her coat. "It's the furthest from here. If you don't find them or any sign of them then drive to the western town to meet up with me."

"It's gonna take a while to do all that, Pocahontas. Evenin's almost here."

"I know. I'll walk in the dark if I have to."

Merle sighed in disapproval, but opted to listen to the stubborn former marshal. He saluted in his usual mocking fashion before darting back in the forest, back on the path to the prison.

Alone, Samara stood rigid, her fists clenched knuckle white. Was her decision the best choice? What if Merle's option had been better? What if walkers ambushed those children and they panicked and ran in different directions? Samara was hesitant if she would follow one trail and not the other. Was she just wasting time on people that did not matter?

The Native bit her lip in doubt as she watched those tightened fingers tremble like fragile leaves. The hiss of metal and horrified hazel eyes flashed before her mind.

_Gods, I hope I made the right choice._

* * *

Huff…Huff…

Sweat poured down her forehead in hordes, her limbs sore and throbbing. Samara had ran almost the entire night with few stops in between. The need to find a trace of human life became urgent with each passing mile. She was on the prowl and her target was just within reach, she could feel it. But there was that tiny voice at the back of her mind that whispered the futility of her effort. The children were gone, along with supposed baby Judith. Eaten or lost, it did not matter…the result was the same.

Samara pushed against the voice. She would not listen to its cynical words. For once in her living years, she'd rather hope for life.

Walkers had been scarce along the railway. The only one of note had been one trapped in the tracks, clawing at the gravel for escape. Samara had simply sidestepped it and let it struggle for eternity…or for however long these monsters lived.

Frustration began to seep into her exhausted bones. How long will she have to run? She'd braved the obscure and dangerous night, riled up Dixon's trigger happy nerves. What more did she have to do?

Her quick steps faltered until they reached a slow gait. What was she doing, running around like a madwoman? Since when did looking for a needle in the haystack ever paid off? Her old self wouldn't have embarked on this…charade. She would have cut her loses and moved on. Time did not wait for those that were lost.

A howl of anger slipped passed her lips as she sat on the tracks, her breath escaping in warm puffs. Her mind was abuzz with hurried thoughts. Her search couldn't be done by one singular pair. Before the end of civilization, the full Marshal force hadn't always been enough. They would, at times, request for the help of the local police and even volunteers. Dozens upon dozens of people, an army looking for one person, but now…she had herself and an old hick with one hand.

—She was shit out of luck.

Gloved hands raked through her grimy hair with desperation. There was no possible way that she would find the owner of those footprints by running beside a railway. There were hundreds of kilometers of vegetation and concrete in every direction. They could have, at any point in time, deviated from the tracks and gotten lost in the cold forest. Those survivors were gone, just like her mind.

Looking up at the murky sky, an idea hit the former marshal like lightning striking a tree. She had not tried every possible opportunity available. After all, she might not be able to see them, but they might be able to _hear_ her. Lifting herself up to her feet, Samara stood with limbs shaking in excitement. The dangers of her idea were all too real, but if the mere chance existed…

"Michonne!"

Her voice traveled across the silent world, echoing over the distance. A murder of crows cawed in the vicinity, spooked by the sudden intrusion.

Samara hissed, her breath coming out in white puffs. She knew that she had just announced her position over several kilometers, but what other choice was left? If by some miraculous chance the survivors heard her then it was worth breaking her silent pact.

"Carol!"

She had no idea who was out there, but nonetheless she called out to all of them. They had to know it was a friendly.

"Beth! It's Samara!"

The Native waited frozen in place. The passing seconds felt like endless sand coursing through the hourglass, never once filling. Silence was her only answer in the dead world, crushing her furtive moment of optimism.

No.

That was not true…

Hiss. Groan.

There were the walkers.

—_They_ heard her.

* * *

With one last ragged shove, the hole was filled to the brim, ending the monotone ritual that she had seen far too many times these past two years.

Too many friends. Too many bodies. Too many jaded funerals.

It made one cynical, uncaring. Carol, for one, had become numb to the death around her. Another one joined the ranks of the dead…another one followed in the footsteps of her daughter while she still lived and breathed, denied the opportunity to join her in the Afterlife.

She stared in exhaustion at the fresh grave. Two young girls laid underneath the dirt, no older than twelve. Death had claimed them just that very morning and quite unexpected to Carol's still muddled thoughts. They had not deserved their fate, but at the very least they were free now. Of the pain, the misery, hardship and cruelty of the world. They would not know hunger anymore or fear. They would no longer have to witness atrocities or, worse, have to apply them.

_Lizzie…_

Carol felt the skin around her eyes hollow out as a dull headache began to rear its unpleasant head. How had she not seen it? Those two girls had been precious to her, reminding her of her own daughter that had been taken far too early from her side. Had she been that blinded by the need to fill the void inside her that she had not seen the sickness inside Lizzie? How long had the girl been manifesting her psychotic tendencies? Days, weeks, months, Carol had no idea, but what she did know was that she had overlooked them. She had not considered the possibility since they were just little children, but in these times, danger came from all sides, no matter their age, gender or race.

She should have been more vigilant. Kept a closer eye on the children's well being instead of just teaching them how to survive. Maybe then…

Maybe there would have been a chance to _save_ her.

Carol took in a deep breath, feeling her eyes moisten. What if her teachings had just accentuated Lizzie's mania? She had after all placed a knife in the girl's hand and showed her where to stab. She had not meant for these results. She had only wanted to protect the children so they wouldn't end up like her daughter, afraid to even defend themselves or freeze up at the smell of danger. So they wouldn't allow themselves to get bitten when they had the chance to live another day.

Had she been the catalyst for Lizzie's downfall?

The older woman sighed in weariness as she massaged her warm forehead. What did it matter anymore? Lizzie was dead along with her sister, the proof staring her in the face. Carol had done what needed to be done for her and Judith's sake. Lizzie could not live, not after what she'd done to her own sister. Carol should feel that justice had been done, that she had made the right decision considering the nature of the situation…but even so…

—Carol wanted to cry and wail at the grey sky. Question and scream at the One considered to have all the answers to life, but what good would it do when silence would be her answer each and every time?

It made her wonder if her daughter did indeed reach a better place or if she simply ceased to exist like a drop of water in the rain…

"I'm sorry." She stared at the desolate grave, a single tear rolling down her cheek. Her throat tightened, leaving her words tongue tied. "It should've never ended like this. I—

"Michonne!"

Carol paused dead in her tracks.

_What?_

"Carol!"

As if burnt by hot coal, Carol dropped the shovel and spun around, searching for the source of the voice. Someone had shouted out her name, hers and MIchonne's.

Another survivor.

The distance couldn't be wide judging by the clarity of the yell, but the voice...It sounded familiar and at the same time, not. Who was it?

"Beth! It's Samara!"

Carol stood in disbelief. _Samara?_ What…Why…How was it possible? She was hundreds, maybe thousands of kilometers away, doing god knows what. She couldn't be here, not now of all times. Was this a trick? Did her broken heart finally snap the last threads of her sanity?

"I'm on the train tracks!"

Something set in motion inside her. As if a dormant reaction had been simply activated. Without any reservations or further question on why Samara was back in Georgia or if it was even her, the older woman picked up her rifle and locked the front door of the house as gently as possible.

_I'll come back, Judith. Sleep peacefully until then._

She had to move fast. Walkers should have heard those shouts and would, no doubt, be gunning towards the source. Through the dead foliage she ran, the sudden exertion warming up her cold body. The house where she had stopped for respite with the girls had not been far from the train tracks, but the voice sounded further down the rails.

Her heart raced inside her chest like a piston. Even now, Carol would not believe it until she saw it. Loneliness and wretchedness could play tricks on the grief-stricken mind. She knew that far better than anyone else. Hope was a fickle beast and Carol would rather not fall in its abysmal pits again.

—The first thing she saw were the bodies of dead walkers with arrows sticking out of their heads.

Carol stared in disbelief as a person dressed in a long black trench coat downed walkers with a small axe and a dagger in each hand, the compound bow having been abandoned from lack of ammunition. This person's reflexes were on par and they moved with calculated agility, never once letting the undead lay a finger on their body.

—An experienced killer, one that Carol had seen dance that particular lethal waltz.

The older woman took out her own hunting knife and threw it at the last standing walker, hitting it square in the back of its head. The coat wearer turned at the sound of the impact, the bloodied axe ready for any imminent danger. Her eyes were feral with carnage and Carol felt her own defenses rise up in fear of the Native acting through the red haze.

But she stopped.

The axe and dagger fell to her sides and Samara stared in wonder.

"Carol…"

_It really is her._

Dirtied and weary by travels, sporting that same juvenile skeleton mask and spattered with blackish blood, but underneath it all it was her—the former marshal from West Virginia.

Carol broke into a smile. Despite the bleak hardships of the morning, she could not help herself. Seeing someone she knew alive gave her that tiny spark of hope that she needed, especially someone that many people had considered lost. How she arrived here was of no consequence to the woman, Carol simply believed that it was a miracle. That despite the dark clouds overhead, a silver of light could always be found between the cracks.

_Sophia…My baby girl…Did you do this?_

Samara's breath was ragged and a faint trace of violence still swam in her olive eyes. Carol knew that she was coming off the adrenaline as her hands shook with extreme self-control. The Native opened her mouth to speak, but Carol interrupted.

"Not here." She spoke in a soft tone, careful not to agitate the fighter. "More walkers should be comin'. There's a house nearby where I'm hidin'."

Carol turned without another word and ran into the withered forest, confident that the other woman would follow without a hitch. It had been just in time as the groans of the undead reached their ears, one more enthusiastic than the other.

_They're comin'._

* * *

They had barely gotten out of the danger zone, walkers having swarmed from all sides of the forest, all drawn in by Samara's voice. The numbers hadn't been excessive, but the two women had preferred hiding in plain sight rather than fighting them. The less they made their presence known, the better.

The house was deep in the forest, more of a getaway cottage than anything. Most likely an elderly couple had lived there before the outbreak and now it lay forgotten and in continuous corrosion. The grave in front of the house was what caught Samara's attention—

_Too small for an adult._

Those children she had tracked…where they in there?

Inside the house, rich webs covered the furniture and corners. The house hadn't been occupied in months, maybe years as dust thick as a blanket lay on every surface, only here and there disturbed by its recent inhabitants. A tomb like silence muted the air, the framed pictures around the living room alluding to a certain sadness. Someone had lived in their little corner of Eden before it had been snatched from under their feet in the most brutal fashion.

_Nobody's spared in the Reaper's sight—_

Samara faltered.

A soft coo echoed out through the dead hallway.

Carol headed straight for the sound with an air of urgency. The Native followed alert, her heart beating like a piston inside her chest. Was that…

The breath she held escaped her lungs with a weary puff. Judith sat in Carol's arms, alive and whole, her little fist in her mouth covered in drool.

"She's alive." Samara blurted in astonishment. Believing was one thing, but seeing actual proof felt like a blow to the head.

Those soulful eyes watched the new addition with curiosity, but as Samara neared, her face contorted and Judith began fussing in Carol's arms. Tears wetted her lashes and tiny sounds of discomfort escaped her.

"You're scarin' her."

Carol shielded Judith's gaze from Samara. It was not done out of spite, but to calm the baby before she had a crying fit. That would spill disaster for all three of them considering the state of alertness the walkers were in. Samara looked over herself. She wasn't in the freshest condition as walker blood was spattered over her coat. The stench didn't help either.

"There's a small water pump at the back of the house."

Samara left without a word of protest.

Scrubbing off the gunk took some time and even then the cloying aroma of death still clung to her. As she closed the pump, her mind wandered over to the baby. What blind luck she had. How many adults had died during the prison takeover and she, a small defenseless creature, managed to survive. It almost didn't seem fair. Was Rick aware of his pseudo-daughter's status or was he…

Samara shook her head to dispel such nasty thoughts. She refused to believe them, even for a moment.

Once cleaned, she returned to the house to find Carol in the living area, sitting on a grimy armchair. Judith was in her lap and the older woman entertained her with silly faces. The baby girl loved it as she squealed in delight and clapped her pudgy hands with enthusiasm.

Samara settled on the far end of the room on a rocking chair. Only now did she realize how sore her muscles were, how tired her bones were. Fatigue assaulted her from all sides now that the danger was over and she had accomplished her mission. Sleep was on the edge of her mind but she knew she could not rest yet. It was early morning and they had no time to waste.

"Look, Carol. I don't know who else from the prison is alive, but that's why I'm out here searching with Merle." The older woman raised a curious brow at the mention of the older Dixon. _Understandable_. "You and Judith are the first people I've found and I don't intend you to be the last. Now, we need to move. There's a town nearby where Merle's waiting for us. I intend to reach it before sundown."

Carol stared at the Native with a keen air. Samara could see thoughts churning in those now jaded eyes and she waited for the words that would soon follow.

"What're you doin' here, Samara? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but…" Her brow furrowed in bafflement. "_How_ did you find us?"

Samara sighed. It would be a long story, but the older woman needed to hear it all. By the end, Samara's mouth was dryer than a desert and Carol was left speechless. She lay in her chair, digesting the words like a bitter pill. A shadow rested over her features adding extra years to her tired body.

"Tyreese, Hershel, Alice, so many others dead…I can't believe it." She massaged her face, her age lines more accentuated than ever. There was a deep sadness to her eyes, one that screamed having experienced far too much death in too little time.

But what interested Samara was the fact that Carol had not been present at the battle.

"You weren't at the prison."

Carol shook her head in a light haze, her mind still far away.

"Supply run?"

"No."

Samara frowned in thought. What had she been doing on the outside then?

_Question for another time._

"We should go."

Carol nodded and rose to her feet, leaving Judith in the armchair. The girl fussed and gurgled at being left alone, but one plushy toy placed in her arms and she forgot all about Carol.

"I'll be done in ten minutes."

Samara stared at the small creature, how she found both happiness and excitement at the sight of a stuffed animal. She was lucky for not yet having the proper understanding of what was happening around her. Even if both her parents and sibling were dead, she would have no recollection of them once grown up, and as such, would have no need to grieve or be weighed down by old ghosts.

_Lucky, indeed._

Almost as if feeling the undivided attention, Judith's chestnut eyes turned to Samara. She did not start crying again, only stared at the woman in curiosity. Samara felt awkwardness slither over her skin. She never did learn how to handle children, much less babies. That job had been John's since he was the one fond of children. For the better part, she either spoke to them like adults or animals, prompting her husband's infinite amusement.

Judith cooed before stretching her free hand over in Samara's direction as if it wanted to be picked up, but the woman chose to ignore the gesture.

_I'd rather not._


	5. All Roads Lead to Terminus

The silence of the afternoon was daunting. The only sound disturbing the peace was the gravel crunching underneath their boots and the pitter-patter of a light rain.

Samara's eyes followed a pair of sleepers in the distance as they remained stock still. A normal occurrence during low temperatures, but even so, the woman preferred to be certain. The pair still had some kilometers until they reached their destination. Open fields surrounded them as the emaciated forest was left behind, offering them no more protection from inquisitive, hungry eyes. The rain neither helped as the cold seeped in their bones making their bodies rattle with each step.

—It was not a good afternoon.

Samara peaked behind her at the woman following her like a shadow. Carol had changed, it had been visible from the moment they were reunited. The woman had never been inclined to run towards danger, much less fight the undead. Her aid during Samara's battle had not gone unnoticed.

The older woman was vigilant, her body tense and ready for any dangers. Whatever sudden noise she heard, her first instinct was to reach for her knife and not sprint. A change from her former weak, little mouse self. What had caused the change, Samara wondered. Perhaps the woman had realized that in the end, no one would save her but herself. Perhaps the dismal reality had finally burrowed into her brain and awakened her fighting instinct. In the end, nobody wanted to die, no matter how ugly life became.

She wished she could ask Carol what prompted the change, but Samara knew that that would be snooping. Furthermore, the woman had no reason to divulge her reasons. She and Carol had never been close, barely acquaintances.

Deep down, Samara was glad. Glad that the woman had found the strength within herself to fight, to survive in their forsaken world despite the hardships and the losses she endured. It was admirable in Samara's eyes.

Other questions swam inside the Native's mind. About the happenings at the prison, the well-being of the others...about Daryl. The woman was the closest to the Georgia hunter. If there was one person who could inform her, it was Carol—

"What's gonna happen once we meet up with Merle?"

Samara had thought about it. She and Merle couldn't take Carol along, not with Judith in tow. The baby—who Samara was happy that she was alive—threw a wrench in their plans.

"We'll probably head back to the Greene's farm. You're going to stay there with Judith while he and I go back searching."

"He must be desperate to find his brother."

Samara agreed in silence. Nothing was on the older hick's mind than the well-being of his little brother. Samara found it moving, if not frustrating. He could have a one-track mind when he set his goals, never leaving any room for deviations.

"Aren't you gonna ask?"

The Native felt a knot tighten in her throat. She knew what Carol was alluding to.

"I figured you wouldn't tell me."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're _his_ friend. Because you care about him. People tend to protect the ones they love, right?"

Even with her body turned, Samara felt Carol's eyes burning holes in the back of her head.

"I don't hate you, Samara. I know you don't believe me, but that's the truth."

Samara's pace came to a halt. A part of her had no desire to dredge up the past, but sooner or later the issues had to resurface. There was no trace of fear in the older woman, not like before when Carol had tried to apologize to Samara only for the Native to rebuke her in the most brutal fashion.

"Back then…What I said…I may have crossed the line."

_"I want you to feel just as pathetic and weak as when you saw Sophia dearest walk out of that barn."_

"_Go kill yourself for all I care!"_

"I shouldn't have said them even though I was angry at what you did."

At that time, Samara had felt that justice had been served. She had gotten her retribution for Carol's cowardice, the cause of her avoidable brush with death, but now…times were different. They had changed. Samara had no wish to hold that grudge anymore. She wanted a clean slate with the woman, even if their relationship would never pass the level of survivors. Samara was alright with that as long as the air was clear.

"I'm sorry for that. _Really_."

Carol watched her attentively before an exhausted chuckle escaped her.

"After everythin' that's happened, a few hisses and barks don't break me anymore. Words are air, nothing else." Those pastel blue eyes, jaded as they were, still held a tiny spark of the warmth the woman once carried with her like a torch and she passed it to Samara without regret. "It's in the _past_. It doesn't matter anymore."

There was no anger within her, no judgement. Carol had moved on from their argument long ago. It seemed Samara had been the only one to carry that burden, poising herself in the process. Sometimes, even Samara could not understand the level of foolish stubbornness she possessed.

"We have more important things to worry about now." Those jaded eyes hardened as she rearranged Judith in the sling with the utmost care and protection. Maternal instincts never left a mother, even after the loss of their child. "Likin' or dislikin' each other doesn't factor in our survival. That's just a luxury and, right now, we can't afford that."

_You've definitely changed._

Samara nodded, agreeing once and for all with the woman. It was in the past. Let it die there.

Somehow, the gloomy day did not seem so overbearing anymore.

"Carol, I need to ask you…" She had put it off for hours now, but Samara needed to know. "I tracked two sets of children's footsteps alongside yours. You feel like telling me who was in that grave?"

The air turned electric.

"…I think you have a hunch already."

She did, but all the same, Samara wanted to hear it from her mouth.

"Both of them?"

Carol nodded, her gaze distant. A light air of melancholy deepened her aging lines, making her appear older by decades. These children's death had taken a toll on her, both physically and emotionally. Samara had no idea what relation she had to them, but it must have been close.

It was a shame, Samara thought, but at least those children did not have to suffer anymore. They were better off in the Unknown. Their unforgiving world was not meant for tiny creatures unable to defend themselves.

"Who were they?"

"Lizzie and Mika." Carol said, her words coming out forced. "You didn't know them, they came along with their father after you left. Ryan died a few weeks ago. He got bit and I had to…I took care of them after, but I don't think they ever got over his death."

"How did they die?"

Carol sighed.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

Perhaps Samara had overdone it with the question. Those girls had died not long before she and Carol were reunited judging by the grave's freshness. Carol must feel as if Samara was pulling teeth with her curiosity, the pain still raw in her heart.

Samara let the woman be. Those girls dying on her watch must have stirred up Sophia's ghost, breaking the woman's heart all over again. Prodding her with a stick would not end well if she persisted—

"Just so you know, Daryl is alright."

Her breath hitched, but her steps did not falter. Samara listened to the woman's words as if they were Scripture, prompting her older self's disgust at her punch-drunk actions.

"He might not be happiest man alive, but he found stability. After you and Merle left, he was angry all the time. Barely talkin'. _Sad_."

Samara pursed her lips, feeling the need to chew on them. Those were the reactions she had not wished for, but at that time she had blocked it out, preferring to tune the hunter and her departure's consequences out. She had not wanted anything holding her back, blocking her from her freedom.

She had never wanted to hurt him. Deep inside, she still cared for Daryl, but she was not delusional enough to believe that matters had remained the same. Emotions had shifted along with the passing seasons. She did not believe Daryl harbored anything but anger and indifference towards her. Her only hope was that he would listen long enough for her to explain. To lay out her version of the story even though it pained her to do it. Exposing her heart raw had never been her specialty, much less when guilt lay at her feet.

"I don't know what was between the two of you." Carol continued, oblivious to Samara's internal struggle. "I never asked and Daryl never told, but know this—it took a while for his wounds to close. For him to start livin' again and move on with his life. To see him actually smile, even a little bit."

Samara felt a string being pulled—

"Is this the part where you threaten me if I approach him again?"

Her words came out with more bite than intended, but it did not seem to affect the older woman. Carol seemed too spiritually exhausted to deal with anything, much less an argumentative former marshal.

"No, I'm just tellin' you how it was."

Carol lapsed into silence, leaving Samara stewing in her own skull. She might not have outwards said it, but Samara understood the message hidden within.

_Food for thought, huh?_

* * *

Finding Merle had proved to be easier than imagined. The man had not exactly been subtle on his occupation of the small town.

Merle had found nothing of note, neither outside nor in. Food and water had been scarce, the houses having been scavenged from top to bottom. His surprise had been minute upon seeing Carol and displeased at the sight of the baby. Samara knew what circled through his primordial mind—the baby was an unneeded hindrance. Somewhere in Samara's own lizard brain, her own thoughts mirrored his, but she ignored them. Now was not the time for her old self to start hissing and poisoning her reason.

"Once we reach the farm, we're going to leave you the jeep while we head back to the car jam and pick another ride. That way, if something happens you have a means to get away."

The trio stood near the car, talking and planning the near future. Carol, while listening, fed Judith some carrot puree from the bottom of the jar. Food was thinning, Samara knew. Before, they just about had enough for two and now they were three and a quarter. Baby food was not something they were abundant in either.

"We have some food on us." Samara indicated the half deflated duffel bag on the backseat of the car. "You take it all and we'll handle ourselves. We'll come back every night to check on you and the baby, alright?"

Carol nodded, more than agreeable with the proposition. Merle on the other hand was not. His constant glare spoke volumes—he did not appreciate sharing, particularly their dwindling food supply.

"Do you even have a direction where to look for the others?"

"Found a pair of tracks that might be Daryl's. We'll follow 'em, _finally_." Merle threw Samara a withering stare, but she rolled her eyes in response. Her decision had paid off in the end even if it wasn't to his liking.

Carol frowned in thought, chewing on her bottom lip.

"You know, I wasn't walkin' aimlessly. That group on the train tracks, the dead ones, did you come by them?"

Both hunters nodded.

"One of them told me before he died that they heard a transmission on the radio about a place called Terminus. They were headin' over there when the walkers ambushed them. He said it was safe. That it was a sanctuary."

"Guy must've been on crack then." Merle scoffed, skeptical. "Nowhere's safe."

"Wait." Samara's own temple turned into a pensive frown. "He heard about it on the radio?"

"Must be some kind of looped message like the one we heard back at the car jam."

The gears in Samara's brain spun. She climbed inside the car and turned on the radio, switching channels until out of static a voice was born, almost incomprehensible to the ears.

"_Terminus, those who arrive survive. Follow the tracks where all lines intersect. There are maps at the train crossings to help guide you with your journey. Sanctuary for all, community for all. Those who arrive survive. Terminus. Sanctuary for all, community for all—_

Samara switched it off, the gears having come to a halt. She looked to Merle and she could see that he also had thought of the same thing—if Carol heard about it, who said that the others hadn't?

"If they even came upon the map, they might've headed that way." Merle scrutinized the area around him, his eyes settling on a point in the distance. "Crossin's near. I'll go take a peak."

Samara watched as the older man disappeared from view, not even waiting for a second opinion.

"I see some things don't change even with time."

At first, Samara had also believed the same as Carol, but…

"Merle's changed, it's just hard to tell at first glance."

"You might be right." The older woman frowned in thought. "He hasn't insulted me yet and it's been over half an hour."

Samara smirked.

It didn't take long. As soon as Merle disappeared in search did he return, a triumphant grin on his lips. He slammed a crumpled piece of paper on the hood of the car and pointed to the big, hand drawn star on the map.

"That there is Terminus."

Samara analyzed the map with intensity and realized with surprise—

"It's near Macon."

"Mhmm, just outside of the city by the looks of it. See all them black lines? Train tracks."

_All roads lead to Terminus, huh?_

"It's not far from here. Just two hours or so on foot."

"You wanna walk there?" Carol appeared dissatisfied with the idea considering she had a baby in her arms.

"Cars attract attention and that's something we don't need. Either way, you're not coming. This is going to be a two man job." Samara set her foot down. She could not afford Judith being a distraction or, worse, being placed in danger. "Merle and I will scout this place and if we don't find our people, we come back and continue our search back at the prison."

They all nodded with different degrees of acceptance.

"Let's go then."

* * *

Samara felt it all the way up to her temple. The exhaustion was starting to affect her body in not so positive ways—pulsating headache, light dizziness, palpitating heart, heavy limbs, twitching muscles and a general moody disposition. She just wanted to sleep, but it was out of the question. She had to find her friends…her family. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time she went on days without sleep and it wouldn't be the last. She could handle it.

A rustle to her side and Merle appeared in her peripheral, lighting up two cigarettes.

"You buy that message?"

Samara shook her head before accepting the second cigarette. "It sounded shady to me. Almost too good to be true."

"Yeah, got that vibe too. I mean, I ain't no stranger to lurin' others into traps. I've done it before with the Governor and we've seen it all the way to California. You don't broadcast that kind of message unless you're prepared on who's gonna listen to it. Might not always be friendlies."

"People always want what other people have. It's human nature."

"Got that right." A cloud of smoke blew out of his nostrils like a cartoon bull. "So either these folks are stupid or there's somethin' rotten in Ter—"

Crack! Crack!

The trio froze like rabbits as gunshots resounded in the distance.

"I guess we're about to find out." Samara threw away her half smoked cigarette and readied her gun. More gunshots followed in successive strikes, echoing around them. "Gods, those shots will attract walkers."

"That they will, sister." Merle locked and loaded his gun. "A whole lot of 'em."

The duo abandoned the train tracks and headed for the protective cover of the forest. All around them they could hear the distant snarls of the undead, boiling their blood and propelling their speed.

Samara wondered on the gunshots—where they coming from Terminus or from somewhere else? Had trouble already come to 'Paradise"? If her memory served her right, those had been the sharp sounds of semi-automatic rifles. The prison people had guns of that sort. Maybe it had been them. But then came the inevitable dread. If it was her friends pulling the trigger, then they were in mortal danger.

The notion quickened Samara's step, her exhaustion all but forgotten.

Through the withered foliage they heard a mechanical voice pop and crackle through static. Their run came to a light walk, vigilance tightening their muscles. They approach in silence, hidden from sight as a now clear voice responded to the static. Past the naked branches, Samara could spot a road and a pick-up truck parked in the middle. A man was crouched over an ensemble of set-up fireworks, speaking over a walkie-talkie.

Samara and Merle exchanged a glance. The man could only be from Terminus. The information he carried could prove interesting.

The guy laughed at something the person on the walkie said.

"See, I knew the chick with the sword was bad news."

Thunder deafened her. Samara's face blackened, dread crawling over her spine.

_Is he talking about Michonne?!_

"Bitch looked like a weapon with a weapon. I told Gareth I want the kid's hat after they _bleed_ him out."

Her stomach kid with the hat could only be Carl. He had a cool hat, after all.

Having heard enough of the man's morbid merriment, Samara readied her Glock and signed Merle to move out. Step by step, the duo marched out of their hiding spot and approached the man until the cold muzzle touched the back of his head.

"Keep your finger off the button and drop it."

The man hesitated at first, but a firm prod from her gun convinced him that it was in his best interest to listen. The walkie was swiped by Merle who inspected it with curiosity before pocketing it.

"Raise your hands and put them behind your head."

He did with gritted teeth as Merle wrapped his belt around his wrists, tight as a noose.

"Listen, y'all don't have to do this. I ain't got anythin' of value on me." That southern accent was strong in him. "Whatever you want, we got a place where everyone's welco—"

"Shut up, asshole!"

Like the brute he was, Merle planted his boot on the man's back and forced him to the ground. The unnamed man groaned in pain as he hit the cold pavement with nothing to save his fall. The older Dixon began patting him over for any weapons and came up with a simple dagger and gun.

Samara circled around, looming over the man. With surprising strength for a one-handed man, Merle lifted the stranger to his feet. Blood ran down his mouth and chin, a large gash in the middle of his nose.

"You told that woman you'd bleed someone out?" She spat with animosity, feeling the burning urge to kick the man in the crotch. "We're friends of the chick with the sword and the kid in the hat."

—It was in that moment that the man knew he was in _deep_ shit.

"They attacked us! We're just holdin' them so nobody else gets hurt."

"Now that there is some grade A bullshit!" Merle slapped the back of his head so hard his cap fell off. "You lyin' to me, boy? Huh?"

Before Merle delved deeper into his violent nature, Samara got a hold of the situation and brought the focus back on their lost people.

"Who else do you have? Do you know their names?"

"We just got the boy and the samurai, that's it!" The ruffled and battered man spat in anger. "We were just protectin' ourselves!"

"I don't believe you, shit brain." Merle growled as he slapped him harder before shaking his entire body like a rag. "A man with a crossbow, you have him?"

A flash of recognition.

"You son of a bitch!"

Without the least bit of restraint, Merle unleashed his fists upon him. Samara sighed at the man's short and volatile temper. She swore even a mosquito buzzing around could send him into an almighty rampage. While at times it had helped, the situation at hand required a level head.

"We don't have time for this, Merle."

Prying Merle off his bloodied and bruised prey had been no easy feat. The man was far heavier and his brute force was intimidating. It was a surprise Merle had not 'accidentally' hit her while Samara dragged him away, his flailing arms fluttering around like rags in the wind.

"You fuckin' asshole!" The man spat blood, a tooth bouncing off the cold pavement. "There's a bunch of us out there in six different directions! They'll know somethin's wrong when I don't set off the fireworks and they're gonna come after me!"

Samara spared the fireworks a glance. There was a herd on the way because of the gunshots and these people were intent on setting off fireworks in different directions. Distractions. The idea couldn't have been recent. It must have been a planned out counteraction. In other words, these Terminus people had protocol in case of herds. It wasn't their first rodeo.

"There's a herd heading toward Terminus right now, but you knew that." She stared in shrewdness at the man. "That's why you're out here setting up fireworks. The thing is, stranger, we don't want to confuse them away. We're going to _need_ their help."

A plan was forming. It was vague and it might be unworkable depending on the surroundings, but it was there just in case.

"They'll see you comin'. If you even make it that far with all the cold bodies headin' over."

Merle caught the man by the lapels of his shirt and pulled him up, ferocity contorting his features.

"Where're you holdin' my brother?"

"Fuck you, hillbilly!"

Crack!

Samara winced at the sound of the stranger's nose breaking under Merle's iron forehead. The Native sighed in aggravation. If only Merle could have a little more tact.

_We don't have time for this._

Samara hovered over the man in pain, her hands tense. He looked a right mess, blood smudged on his face and his skin turning purple, but there was no mercy in the woman's eyes.

"Just know, that from the moment I put that gun to your head, you had no chance of getting out of this alive."

A pull of the mini-crossbow's trigger and Merle's arrow found itself planted into the man's eye. His lifeless body fell to the cold pavement, becoming one with the earth.

With a cuss, Merle's angry eyes remained glued to the corpse almost as if wishing they would burn it to cinders. His desperation to find his brother was noxious. It could be felt dripping out of his pores like sweat. Samara, too, was antsy, but she kept her temper cool. It would do her no good if she lost her bearings.

"We headin' there."

It wasn't a question, but an absolute proclamation.

There never was a doubt in Samara's mind concerning their next move.

"It's not going to be easy. We don't know how many are in Terminus, what weapons they have or even the layout of the place. We have to do this subtle. Smart."

Meaning not in Merle's rampage style.

With a revolting squelch, Merle removed the arrow from the stranger, his gaze heartless as he wiped the blood on the man's jacket.

"Don't matter none how we do it, the only thing I _do_ know…Is that we're gonna kill some people."

* * *

It was a train station.

The so called salvation of humanity, Terminus, was in fact a lesser pit stop before entering Macon. Not that Samara was amazed, she had habituated in a prison after all, but she had expected a compound of sorts. Train stations had many weak points, starting with lack of fences in certain areas.

Samara looked over the front entrance—a chain fence separated the people of Terminus from the rest of the world, but by the look of it a herd of walkers could topple it without effort. Must be the reason they had resorted to fireworks to redirect any group heading towards the station. Smart.

Outside the fence, people armed with rifles and crowbars patrolled the gates, exterminating the few straggles that approached.

"See that tank over there?" Merle pointed towards the hunk of metal past the fence. "That's a propane tank. You feed it some fire and boom! Got yourself one hell of an explosion."

Merle smirked as he showed off the 'borrowed' firework rocket from the deceased Terminus man.

"This little sucker could cause a lot of damage."

The tank was near the gate. The explosion could blow them down along with the people patrolling and give the two of them a way in. It appeared extreme, but coupled with a herd invasion it could provide the chaos needed to rescue the others and lose themselves in the confusion. The Terminus people would have other worries on their hands than their captives escaping. The only downside of her plan would be the death of one or more of her people via walker. Unfortunately, that was a risk she was willing to take. Her friends were strong and had survived worse situations that their current.

The Terminus guards yelled and ran around like overexcited puppies. It seemed the herd had made itself visible, their target clear and in sight. It was huge, bigger than the one that had passed through the highway jaw years ago. The sheer size of it could swallow the train station with ease.

_Good._

"Merle, you ever play with fireworks before?"

"You kiddin'? They were like my best friend when I was a kid."

"So you can hit that propane tank from here."

Merle grinned as he stuck the rod of the rocket in the earth, positioned at a precise angle. His zippo stood at ready in his hand.

"Just tell me whe—"

Whoosh.

Bang!

Both Merle and Samara jumped as crackles and whistles erupted in the distance. The sky lit up with multicolored flowers, painting the dreary scenery and announcing the start of Terminus' contingency plan.

"Guess the party started."

The effect was immediate. Half of the herd turned towards the sound while a quarter followed the half like sheep, leaving a small portion to continue on their Terminus march.

They were too few for what she had planned. She needed the entire herd.

_It's now or never._

Readying the assault rifle she took off Carol, Samara unloaded three shots into the tank. White, high powered vapor gushed out, flooding the gate area and prompting the people near to panic and run.

"Light it up."

With a grin as wide as a devil's, Merle ignited the fuse and watched it eat its way to the base. Like lightning, the rocket bolted into the sky and landed right into the propane tank.

Boom!

Even from their distance, Samara felt the heat lick against her skin. The explosion had been loud and jarring, leaving them with a sharp buzzing in their ears. Samara ducked and covered as the shock wave rolled over her, fearful of the scattered debris accidentally falling atop her, but unlike her, Merle seemed to revel in the anarchy.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!"

Merle laughed. It was maniacal, born out of sheer excitement and euphoria. He was right in his element and it only served to fuel Samara's gregarious temper—

Slap!

"Stop fucking around, caveman! We have to move. Now!"

Merle massaged his aching head, but his smile never once wavered. His joy overshadowed Samara's stressful response.

There was nothing to be cheerful about. They were about to enter the lion's den filled with armed living people and hungry undead to search for their friends that may or may not be alive. So Samara being a little over the edge was understandable.

The walkers that had been distracted by the pretty display of fireworks were now marching with determination towards the train station. Their groans and howls were horrifying—a macabre duet of the dead. The people of Terminus ran as the gates had been blown down in the explosion, leaving the way clear for the walkers to attack.

—Their home was finished.

"If we move now we could bypass those geeks."

No...That was not what Samara wanted. It would still paint them as a target for both the living and the dead. She wanted to enter Terminus inconspicuously and search for their friends without obstacles.

Looking over the sea of decay, the Native found her opening.

"We're not bypassing them, we're _joining_ them."

Merle frowned perplexed, but the lightbulb soon switched on.

"The ol' 'become one with the herd', huh?"

It was the easiest method and the safest in an absolute dangerous way. An iron will was needed to attempt such a feat, as well as a resilient stomach. One unintentional lapse of 'walker behavior' and it was lights out. The herd had no mercy in their savagery.

Samara had no wish to participate in this idea—even though it was hers—but it was the fastest towards their goal. It would not be the first time the duo attempted it, but they surely wished it had been the last.

Now they just had to _fish_ a walker to disembowel.

* * *

Samara took shallow, silent breaths. The shorter the better as the stench the walkers emanated was enough to make her puke. She had forgotten how horrible they smelled once together—like a garbage heap filled with rotten food, week old carcasses, spilled guts, sewer water and unwashed feet. Samara was surprised she had not fainted yet.

Merle was in no better mood judging by the constipated expression he sported.

Their transition into the herd had been smooth and without incident. The walkers had accepted them as their own once covered in the appropriate scent. It never once got easier, disemboweling and wearing a walker's innards like a trophy with blood smeared all over their clothes.

They had followed a group that separated from the main party and ended up between buildings. Until then they had not encounter problems of the living kind, but the moment bullets wheezed past their heads, Samara knew shit had hit the fan. In the distance, Terminus people shot at them. The gunmen were on their last stand, defending their home against the onslaught, but there was no stopping the dead. They were simply a black hole, swallowing everything within the vicinity and leaving nothing behind. Their only shot at survival was to leave everything behind and run.

Merle made subtle hand gestures to which Samara nodded in understanding. It was time to split from the herd. With steady feet, they maneuvered through the undead until they reached the side of the building. Samara's teeth gritted as the sound of bullets hitting rotten flesh inched closer. With his shoulder on it, Merle used the bulk of his strength to push against a metal door. A horrendous and loud screech erupted, catching the attention of everyone within the vicinity.

With her heart pumping in fear, Samara applied her own strength and the two opened the heavy, old door. Closing it proved just as difficult as the walkers pummeled against it, hissing and scratching against it.

Merle heaved in exhaustion from leftover adrenaline as he moved away from the locked door. Samara wiped the sweat off her forehead, her hands trembling.

_That was close._

The building they had ended up in was empty with dust and spider webs as their only decorations. Samara tapped Merle on the shoulder and indicated that they should move on. Lingering would only bring trouble over their heads. In silence they traversed the building ending up in an empty alleyway not yet tainted with bodies or walkers.

"We gotta split."

Samara nodded. They could cover more ground if separated. Once they found the others, they would signal via the firework rockets they had taken from the dead Terminus man. It was a hasty plan with many loopholes, but they had to act. Their people's lives depended on it.

Ice cold sweat poured down her spine as gunshots resounded in the distance. As people cried and screamed in pain and fear…As dead bodies fell to the ground to never once rise again…

It sounded like a massacre out there.

It sounded like _war_.

"You go that way, I'll take a peek inside the buildin's here."

As if being propelled from a mist, Samara's mind cleared to the present. With Merle gone, the Native chastised herself for her slight. There was no time for her to walk down memory lane, not when the threat of a brutal and painful death was just around the corner.

The occasional walker greeted her on her run through the alleyways, but they didn't mind her. Her disguise was too on point for any suspicion. Gunshots pops reverberated across the walls of the buildings, but Samara tried to pay them no heed. If she stopped and thought about them, her mind would take her down dark paths.

Strange how from the outside the station did not appear large, but from within she felt like a mouse in a maze.

Reaching a dead end, Samara slid along a door and entered a dubious smelling building. The further in she traveled the smell became more poignant until she had to hold her breath. It smelled raw…and bloody.

Her feet froze solid.

Disgust contorted her lips.

Entering a large garage like area, the first thing she noticed were the hooks dangling from the high rafters and on them—

_No wonder it smelled like raw meat…_

—Skinned human rib cages.

Samara spat disgusted.

_Cannibals._

Just what they needed…

Through the anger and revulsion, the inevitable horrifying notion bloomed in her brain, breaking her body into an ice cold sweat—

Were her friends still alive or…?

With trembling limbs, she walked deeper in the room, weary of things bumping in the dark. It was visible enough that she didn't have to resort to a flashlight, but still dark enough for an ambush.

Trays with bloodied tools and tables with bits of limbs and dissected bodies, cooler boxes no doubt used for organ preservation. Samara passed them all with a scrutinizing glance at the almost whole bodies, more important, the faces. None of them struck familiarity within her.

In the middle of the room lay a long pig through. Three bodies were bent over the rim, in the process of being bled of every ounce of blood. Samara turned the bodies over, her lips pressed tight, but neither was a friendly face.

_Oh, thank the gods…_

Next to the bodies lay several binds of cut rope. Judging how the dead ones sported the same type of binding around their wrists it was safe to assume that three people escaped the slaughterhouse.

_It's them. I just know it._

With a heart full of hope, Samara left the house of carnage and breathed in the fresh air of burning wood, dust and rotten corpses.

* * *

Merle sneaked along the wall of a building.

Behind him, he could still hear the woman's pained screams as she was being devoured by geeks. Merle had shot the crazy old bat in the leg, not generous enough to give her the death she so craved. People that hurt his family didn't deserve clean deaths.

After splitting from the squaw, he had barreled through doors like an angry ram, sniffed for clues like a bloodhound, but to no avail. There was no sign of his brother or his people that could lead Merle to him. No, he did not find Daryl, but he did find his crossbow. It had been piled along with other weapons and objects—the valuables stripped from the prisoners. Merle knew the procedure.

Daryl was in Terminus. His crossbow was proof of it.

They had been on the right track and Merle could feel a sort of elation bubble up in his chest.

With his little brother's crossbow in tow, the older Dixon had stumbled upon a memorial room with a shitload of candles spread all over and names painted on the ground.

And the hag. He couldn't forget her.

Merle had 'negotiated' with her on the whereabouts of his brother, but the old bitch proved uncooperative. The bullet he dug in her leg should have changed her mind, but she was a stubborn cow. Her lips were sealed and there was no time to get the information out of her via a good ol' torture. Merle had to continue on. The battle outside was picking up pace, no doubt the people of Terminus dropping like flies and the survivors choking with desperation.

Her shrill screams stopped. Any other person would have felt a tiny bit remorse over her agonizing death, but after what she had revealed about Terminus and its people—

_Good riddance._

Several less of _them_ was a win in his book.

Gunshots erupted nearby and Merle headed the call. At that point all Merle could do was follow the bullets and hope they would lead him to his brother.

Merle found a fire ladder and climbed it with a nimbleness commendable for a one handed man. Atop the building he scanned the area like a hawk for prey. Walkers were everywhere and more were joining. Large groups wandered the alleyways with the occasional stragglers. He wondered where the squaw was in the chaos below…

Past the building he was on, there were single train containers scattered on the tracks, one in particular with a high concentration of walkers. He could hear bullets wheezing and see three human forms more animated than their dead counterparts. Through the scope, Merle spied as those human forms broke the lock on the freight and opened the heavy door. People poured out…familiar people…

Merle sucked in a breath.

The one who had broken the lock and was now firing his infamous pistol was none other than the sheriff, Rick Grimes. And the other two…the Asian kid and…

—Same frown. Same menacing glare. Same light run.

Merle smiled in relief at the sight of his brother, alive and whole, battling the undead with that viciousness typical of Dixon men.

_Heh, knew you weren't dead, little brother. We ain't the type to die so easily._

His smile dropped at the sight of ginger.

"Goddammit, carrot top!" Merle spat as he observed Abraham help Rosita off the cargo train. "I leave your ass for one day and you get yourself captured like a little bitch. Once we get out of here, I ain't lettin' you live this one down so easily."

There were too many walkers and while his brother's group had numbers, they lacked the appropriate weapons. They fought with whatever they found on the ground, either rocks or pieces of metal.

_Guess you won't mind a little helpin' hand, huh?_

Through the scope, Merle assumed sniper position and began picking off walkers and clearing a path towards the fence. It was their only way out of Terminus. They had to climb.

The group watched perplexed as walkers fell around them, but they did not question it. They were in fight for life or death. Thinking was not on the menu at the moment, only acting. The group reached the barbed fence, gesturing going over it—

Crackle! Hiss!

_The fuck?!_

"_I see 'em!"_

Merle jumped in surprise. Static and voices were coming from inside his coat.

_Wait. That asshole's walkie…_

Opening his jacket, he stared in wonder at the small piece of plastic wedged between his belt and stomach. He only now remembered pocketing it.

"_They're by the fence, Gareth! They're getting away!"_

_Oh, hell no._

Merle looked around in agitation. Terminus people were nearby and they had the group in their sights, no doubt to stop them by any means necessary. He could not have that.

"_I see 'em. Kill 'em all!"_

_Gotcha!_

They were a building over on the rooftop, pointing guns at the people desperately trying to escape the carnage around.

_You better kiss my ass in thanks for this, Grimes._

Merle wasted not even a second and opened fire, no mercy to his actions. Overwhelmed by the surprise blitzkrieg, the Terminus people retreated like frightened vermin, but not before Merle clipped one in the stomach as an added bonus. That one won't survive for long.

"_Someone shot at us and they got Toby! Forget the prisoners! Let's get the hell out of here!"_

That was probably the sanest conclusion they could have ever reached.

With the threat averted, Merle returned his gaze to the ground and noticed with satisfaction that the group was long gone. They had climbed the fence using their jackets as protection from the barbwire. Good. They had taken their chance and left during his shootout with the Terminus gunmen.

His brother was alive and Merle had a direction.

It was time to plant the rocket.

_Come on, squaw. We're ditchin' this joint._

* * *

Samara heard the sharp whine of the rocket and saw it scatter across the sky in a shower of red stars.

A smile spread across her lips. _That son of a bitch…_

Samara ran and sneaked her way through the throng of undead. There was nothing left of Terminus, but a fiery pit of mayhem. At first Samara had felt a smidgen of remorse for bringing such unholy destruction upon the Terminus people, but after finding the bodies and the meat…

She no longer felt any pity whatsoever. In fact, the more Terminus people turned up dead the better.

_It should be here…_

Samara ended up in an area filled with freight trains and walkers. She peered over the distance in search of a Neanderthal looking man with a metal hand, but found no—

Blackbird chirp.

Her head snapped in the direction to where Merle was waving her over from underneath a fire escape ladder. She joined him, mindful of the stragglers still lingering around and zeroed in on the crossbow resting on his back.

_That's…_

"Where are they?" Her heart trembled inside her chest from the killing excitement. The only thing she wanted was to know the others were safe and alive.

Merle's head slanted over in the distance.

"They headed that way. That fence is our way out and to Daryl."

Samara stared over yonder with a blank look. That deadpan stare crossed over to Merle.

"Well…it's kind of hard to see the path over so many fucking walkers!"

By many she meant a herd, slobbering and fidgety over human flesh between them and the direction the group took. Samara couldn't even see the mentioned fence as a literal 'walker wall' blocked her visual field.

Merle growled in frustration and ripped the firework rocket from her belt. Samara almost hit him for his brutish ways, but watched instead as he set the rocket end in the barrel of his rifle, lighting the fuse on fire. Samara shielded herself as sparks showered the both of them before a whine tore through the area and the rocket flew in the distance. The loud explosion that echoed through the demolished Terminus captivated the undeads full attention.

"Now's our chance! Move!"

They did not run, but walked hastily through the herd avoiding touching the walkers. Their movement among the still corpses caught unwanted attention and milky eyes followed. Soon, the walkers animated and they began trailing after the two suspicious corpse smelling 'brethren' that moved far too swift for their tastes. Either simple curiosity or they realized that Samara and Merle were actual living, breathing humans, it did not matter to the duo. They were not about to stick around and find out.

Merle was first over the fence with Samara keeping the curious ones from nearing with a dagger through the head. Merle stuck the barrel of the assault rifle through the chain fence and showered the corpses with bullets, giving Samara the chance to reach his side.

They left Terminus behind in fire and blood, never giving it a second glance.

It was done. It was over.

They had only the path ahead to look forward to.

The group had a head's start on them, but the hunting duo would not lose them. Not again.


	6. Dysfunctional Family

"Hurgh!"

Samara spat the last bits of vomit that permeated her mouth. Nothing but liquid had come up, drenching the loose locks of her braid. Her throat stung as acid burned the sensitive tissue inside.

_Goddammit…_

With their triumphant escape from Terminus came the inevitable realization of what had transpired. The stench of raw meat, the bodies and organs, the knowledge of what would have happened and the foul smell of undead that she was still covered in. It all came crashing down over her head in an intense and loud heave.

With a violent tug, Samara took off her coat and threw it away. She wanted the smell gone, but unfortunately its potency was so resilient that it embedded itself into her skin and hair. She was going to have to live with the stink until she gained access to a soap bar and water…which could happen as soon as that day or a few months from that point.

She could never understand it. How desperation could push to breaking the limits of mortality and delve into depravity and barbarism. Samara understood killing to survive—self-defense or otherwise—but eating one's own kind was…inconceivable.

She had never been placed in that sordid position—either eat or starve to death, and she never wished to because Samara had a morbid inkling that she knew what her choice would be.

"Here."

A cigarette was shoved in her face and Samara took it with quick fingers. Compared to the walker's natural odor, nicotine smelled like Heaven.

Licking the spit off her lips, Samara straightened out and continued on walking as if nothing had delayed their trek. Without the coat, the chilliness of the air seeped into her clothes and puckered her skin. It had not been a good idea getting rid of a layer of clothing, but Samara had not been able to abide the stench anymore. It was either the cold or nausea and dry heaving every few minutes. Samara was left in a black hoodie with a dark blue denim vest while Merle did not seem to mind the smell, but then again his type of jacket was easier to clean. They had scrubbed their faces as best as they could with leaves, but bits of blood still clung to them. The Native did not even want to begin thinking of her hair…ugh.

The duo had been walking for the better part of fifteen minutes with no sight of the group. Samara was starting to worry that Merle had been wrong, but judging from his confident gait, they seemed to be on the right path.

Samara looked behind her. Smoke could be seen rising in the distance through the withered tree branches. She wondered…

"What is it?"

Samara bit her lip in thought.

"…Do you think any of those Terminus people survived?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does." She smoked with uneasiness. "They won't forget that we blew up their gates and let the undead walk inside their home. That their people got killed because of us. People can be _stupidly_ predictable. They're going to want payback."

Merle scoffed.

"They don't even know what we look like. You're worryin' over ghouls and goblins. We got what we came for. If there're any survivors, which I doubt, they probably got other shit on their mind than goin' all revenge on us. I ain't worryin'."

Samara was not wholly convinced, but she let the subject die. Worrying would not help them reunite with their people.

But Merle did need to know something—

"They were cannibals."

Merle hmmed deep in his throat with an expression that revealed that he knew all too well. He, like her, must have come across proof of their savagery.

The older Dixon fidgeted through his clothes and produced a small walkie. He threw it behind him without a second thought prompting Samara to watch his actions in curiosity. He merely shook his head. It's nothing, his stare said.

Samara let it be.

They did not speak further on the subject of Terminus. It was a case closed in their minds.

An eerie silence surrounded them. Whenever large masses of walkers migrated, the world went dead quiet. No birds sang, no insects chirped, no woodland critter or animal sneaked through the foliage. It was unnerving being the only sound for miles.

"Christ, how far did they go?"

Samara smirked at the beads of sweat sliding down the side of Merle's face. They were climbing uneven terrain and it was beginning to take a toll on her hillbilly companion.

"What's wrong, Merle? Old age finally catching up to you?"

His glare was spiteful.

"Wanna try me, squaw? I still got a part of me that works better than it did twenty years ago. Straight as a pole and strong as an ox. Little baby arm to get the juices flowin'."

"I'd rather choke on walker dick to be truthful."

"You ladies always did like the _stiff_ ones."

"Yeah well, I hear necrophilia's in vogue."

Merle snorted in grim amusement before throwing Samara a somber look.

"Meanin' to ask, back on the truck…Why'd you lie to the kid?"

That…was not a topic of conversation Samara wanted to have, with him or anyone else. Ever.

—Nor one she expected from someone as reticent as Merle.

"I…I don't know."

Samara found herself speaking without restraint. It felt like the words were on the tip of her tongue, ready to be liberated. Ever since killing Sara (_Tara?_), she had been doubting her present actions. What was right and wrong felt muddled. The thought was always dancing on the edge of her mind, waiting for the chance to pounce and inflict mental pain.

"That woman…I keep thinking if I did the right thing. If her death was necessary. I just felt so angry. My friends were dead and someone had to pay for what happened and she…she was _there_."

He shouldn't be hearing her inner turmoil. They were not for foreign ears to hear because in the end, she was the only one that could help herself. Nobody else needed to know her woes since no peace of mind would come from it.

Merle shrugged unconcerned. "We all have our Judgement Day."

"And who am I to judge who lives or who dies?"

"These days, we're all judge, jury and executioner. The choice is in our hands now, don't matter none if you want it or not. It's the only way to survive. You pick the wrong one and its lights out, darlin'. You did what you thought was right and cause of that you're still alive. If you _believe_ it then it's the gospel truth. You think if you'd let that woman go, you'd feel any different? You'd just be torturin' yourself over not killin' her. Same shit, different perspective, but all ends in your dumbass doubtin' yourself. Shit, squaw, that's a recipe for disaster. You start doubtin' your gut, you gonna get yourself put in an early grave. Don't regret. That's the key. What happened, happened. Move the fuck on."

She didn't regret it…that's what Samara would love to believe, but she _did_. Even though that woman had supported the Governor, even thought she had been on his side, she had been genuinely remorseful for her participation in the assault. In that moment, vengeance had blinded Samara. The images of Alice, Hershel and Tyreese still floated about in her mind and she saw red. A means to exact revenge was presented to her on a silver platter and Samara had taken it, without the least concern whether the woman shot a single bullet or not. No, she had been to blame.

–Guilt felt bitter, like acid on the tongue.

_What's happening to me?_

"What would you've done if you'd been in my shoes?"

Merle shrugged. "Don't matter. It was your fate to deal with her and you did as intended."

Samara stared in thought.

"Better watch out, Merle. You're starting to sound like a preacher."

Merle grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, losing the somber appearance.

"Always did look nice in black."

Samara smirked.

_Thank you._

It would be a horrendous lie to say that he had put her mind at ease, cured her affliction, but Samara did notice a lighter spring to her step. It was far from over, but for now Samara could focus on the problems more immediate. Maybe one day when time permitted, she would tell Glenn the actual story. After all, the truth set you free, right?

Tweet! Tweet!

Both froze as a rather unusual chirp echoed throughout the trees.

"What the hell was that? Sounded like a dying owl."

"Or a retarded pigeon." Merle snorted. "But I'm pretty sure it's good ol' Abe."

Samara crunched her face as she had to endure another session of horrendous bird calls. If that didn't scare off walkers, she didn't know what would…

* * *

Voices in the distance.

Samara's footsteps softened out of sheer reflex. From experience she knew that living people did not always equal with good, decent people. Closer, she and the old hunter approached, ever vigilant for a scout or a loner of the group. It happened once and it hadn't ended well for either party.

Was it them? Samara's thoughts resounded. Her heart thumped in rapid beats giving her a dizzying feeling. Like walking underneath the sea, the heaviness of the pressure slowing one down to a snail's pace. It felt almost surreal.

"Abraham, will you stop that!" She heard Rosita hiss. "What _are_ you doing?"

_Oh gods._

"I believe that's a botched attempt at a Robin's call."

_It's them._

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Eugene." The giant ginger's rebuke was sharp. "I _appreciate_ it."

"You're welcome."

Despite feeling on cloud nine while sweating ice-cold bullets at the same time, Samara scoffed in amusement. Eugene had a problem with social ques and even basic conversation could become a tough cookie to crack. His actions and positions could appear awkward as if he did not know what to do with his arms or legs. Samara speculated that he was a functional autist…or how Merle liked to put it—a goddamn retard.

The closer they got, the clearer she could see them—Abraham's crew, Maggie and Glenn, Dale, Andrea, Michonne, Rick and his kid, and Daryl. These were all the people that were left. They had been so many more, but now the garden had been plucked to a meager patch of dried up blades of grass.

—A sign of the times.

_But they're alive. That's all that matters._

Rick was on his knees digging through the solid ground. With interest Samara watched as he pulled from the earth a duffle filled with rifles and guns. The Native smirked. It seemed the Kentucky sheriff hadn't lost his touch. With his people armed, he turned to Abraham for an exchange of words. The Texan man did not respond in kind as his expression contorted in anger, inciting Rosita to step up, and from the looks of some of the others, they did not entirely agree with the tide of the conversation.

The old hunter took in a deep breath. His method of silently saying 'it's show time'.

With his chest puffed, Merle announced his presence with loud and rustling steps like a mighty peacock spreading its exquisite tail.

"Hoowee! You folks sure do like gettin' in a shitload of trouble, huh?"

It was like a switch had been flipped.

Silence blanketed as all eyes focused on Merle and his pompous self. Eyes widened in amazement as the older Dixon strode with his rifle leaning over his shoulder and a cigarette caught between his smirking lips. He looked the dictionary definition of smug.

Merle's arrogance soon deflated at the sight of his little brother. He even appeared skittish and unsure to Samara.

"Little brother…Good to see you in one piece."

The younger Dixon was the first to act. He all but jumped his brother, hugging him for dear life. Merle appeared dazed by the sudden and rather strong open display of affection, but he did not shun it. Macho man Merle embraced his brother back with a humorous smile, but nonetheless a relieved one.

Samara felt a smirk sketch her corners. It was nice seeing that underneath all their rough and crude attitudes, the brothers did have something they treasured above everything else.

With slow steps, she approached the clearing. Her eyes remained on Daryl and the happiness radiating off him like a hot furnace. Even his eyes glistened with unshed tears at the knowledge of being once again reunited with his lost brother after many months apart.

Olive eyes traveled from the siblings to her former group and they all seemed to be staring at her with a mixture of exhaustion, joy and disbelief.

"Yo."

_Priceless._

Their faces were the best thing she had seen in a long time. Then again, after the violent activity of a few minutes ago, it was understandable.

Michonne was the first to reach over. Unlike Andrea, she hadn't managed to drive her to the ground, but her hug was fierce...and distressed.

_I know. I saw Tyreese. I'm so sorry._

Samara hugged her for dear life. She had missed Michonne dearly. From her sharp quips to her cunning humor, the swordswoman had buried a niche in her little corner. Samara had never had a best friend in the Before having been quite the loner, but now…Michonne could easily be 'the One'.

The only downside was the circumstance of their reunion. Samara had wished they would have met in a different situation, but life wasn't a fairy tale.

Michonne moved aside as Rick stepped forward, his tired eyes shining with faint wonder. It felt _good_ seeing him again, the person she had started the whole insane journey through the land of the undead. It felt like being home.

—Funny how everything seemed to fall in place concerning the two of them.

"You and Merle…Did you do that?" _That_ being the mayhem at Terminus.

Samara smirked.

"Who else would've done it?"

Rick's smile had been brief, but Samara's eagle eyes had caught it—weak and never reaching his eyes. He looked dead inside, going with the motions of existing on autopilot. What was wrong with him?

Samara did not dare embrace him. He looked about to break apart, barely holding on by the seams.

"What's with the scruffy beard?" She tried elevating his solemnity, but it came out weak and unsteady. "Ever heard of a trim?"

"Had other things on my mind these past few weeks." The former sheriff massaged his jaw with stiff joints, almost self-conscious. "Glenn told us that he met you and Merle along the road. Didn't think we'd meet you here of all places."

"Yeah, well…The two of us have the weird habit of reuniting in the strangest of places."

Rick nodded, approving of her words. Again, no spark of emotion passed his dead eyes.

_This feels wrong._

"There's a town nearby. We should get going before the sun sets. Carol's waiting for us there."

At the mention of her name, several heads perked up in surprise.

_Huh…odd._

"Carol's _alive_?"

Daryl was the one to ask. No hello, no nod, no 'how are you' or 'are you alright'…

Samara nodded with a straight face. She shouldn't be surprised that there was no reaction on his part. They did not part on the best of terms, but still…she had expected _something_.

At the back of her mind, Samara's thoughts circled around the notion that Carol had been separated from the group for quite some time judging by the others feedback. What had happened to cause such a rupture, she wondered.

"She's near. She had to stay behind because—"

It hit her then. Why Rick looked so demoralized. Why it appeared that he dragged his feet across the ground without an ounce of will to live.

—Rick had no idea.

_Dammit, Samara. You're an idiot for not seeing it._

"Rick, there's something you and Carl need to know. Judith's _alive_."

The effect was instantaneous. His pupils widened as adrenaline flooded his system. His body began shivering from the stress of the news. Tears flooded, wetting his lashes and red rimmed eyes. Samara could see his chest rise and fall in rapid successions while beads of sweat bloomed all over his skin.

Callous hands gripped her shoulders making Samara wince in discomfort.

"W-Wha…"

He couldn't speak, his words coming out tongue-tied and quivering. With gentleness, Samara placed a hand atop his to comfort him as well as to dislodge it. His grip hurt. A lot. It felt like he was trying to 'Hulk, smash!' her bones. Samara understood, though. That type of news must have hit him in the gut like a ram. If she had been in his shoes, she wouldn't have been able to control herself.

"She's with Carol." The Native smiled in reassurance, hoping to alleviate his desperate frenzy. "She's _safe_."

"Take us to her." Carl insisted, his lips pressed tight. Samara could see that he was fighting with himself not to cry. "_Please_."

_Gods, you don't have to beg, kid._

* * *

Samara led the pack down the train tracks.

The sun was close to setting, but Samara did not fear. They were close.

She peeked behind her with curiosity. Her people were back to being a ragtag group, migrating from one place to the other forever in the search for Utopia. The prison had never been a safe place—too big, too loud, too _tempting_. Survival came from never remaining in one place for too long. Once stagnating, outsiders just as desperate would appear and want it for themselves, no matter the cost.

—And the cost was far too high.

A nomadic lifestyle was better. That way, nothing was owned except for the clothes and weapons on their backs. It was a hard life, cruel at times, but Samara preferred it over growing roots. It only spelled disaster, but the people behind her couldn't understand that with the exception of Merle. Even Michonne, but she chose not to follow the doctrine.

Her gaze traveled over to the younger Dixon. Daryl walked alongside his brother, speaking in hushed whispers. The first thing she had noticed had been his long hair—

_He really went full Tarzan._

He also sported a black eye and couple of other scratches. Someone had roughed him up in Terminus. Daryl had always been a fighter. Samara figured he wouldn't go down without having a say in it.

All in all, he looked the same. Maybe a worry line extra on that aging forehead of his.

As if feeling her gaze, his head turned towards her. Samara froze, unable to look away, but what she saw chipped away a piece of her heart—there was nothing. There was a thick wall between them setting them at a hundred kilometers apart. Where once she saw a spark, an eagerness every time he would look upon her, now there was nothing but indifference.

The connection broke as Daryl refocused on his brother.

_What was that you said, Merle? Daryl would still be happy to see me?_

She knew it had been a long shot, but that tiny spark of hope hadn't been able to leave her alone. She had prepared herself for disappointment. Samara had not yet lost all reason to believe that upon reuniting they would run towards each other on a field of flowers with nauseating starry-eyed music in the background. It would be business as usual. Two survivors seeing each other again.

_Right…_

Samara sighed as she turned away. Did she even want Daryl back or was it just the longing for some male companionship? Deep down, Samara knew that if it had been the latter, she could have gotten it several times by now. _Not_ from Merle (_just the thought of it makes me want to hurl_), but several men that had caught her attention on the road. Something had always stopped her, kept her from stepping over that threshold. She knew what it was, sat on the forefront of her mind, but her deep-seated arrogance wouldn't allow it to be voice out loud.

Why is it that she only craved something after it slipped through her fingers? Samara swore she was a masochist.

…Or maybe she had just wanted to re-experience what it was like for someone to welcome her home. To be glad to see her again.

With a tired sigh, Samara lit up a cigarette and realized with a groan that she was almost out. Another dry patch would soon await her.

_Great…_

By the time the last sun rays licked the blood red sky, they had reached the periphery of the ghost town where their temporary HQ was.

Merle let out a mellow Canary chirp. Sometimes, Samara could get envious of the expertise he sometimes displayed with such ease. She wished she had his level of capabilities, but knew it would take years before achieving it. Years she might not have.

The door to the house opened and a grizzled head poked out.

Carol.

At the sight of the merry band, battered and exhausted but together again, she left the house with a relieved smile on her face and tears in her eyes. In her arms lay baby Judith, sleeping like an angel.

Rick broke down at the sight of his daughter. He was sobbing by the time he had her back in his arms. The veteran survivor fell to his knees, fat tears running down his cheeks as he kissed her forehead and called out her name in an apologetic chant. Carl knelt next to his father with equal tears wetting his cheeks. A big smile was on his face as he tenderly caressed Judith's head.

The roller coaster of emotion wafting off the Grimes family reunion was bittersweet. Samara felt like she might choke on it as her eyes stung.

But the joyous feeling was pulled to a cold stop as Daryl ran past the group and embraced the older woman in a bear hug. Carol laughed with a soft titter when the hunter lifted her off her feet and swung her around like a doll. After they disentangled, Daryl let his head drop on her shoulder as Carol stroked his hair with warmth. She whispered something in his ear and Daryl responded with a nod, a teary smile brightening his previous morose expression.

—Bile washed over Samara's body.

A black, tar like feeling crept through her veins, hot as Hell and _furious_. It cracked the Native's mask, revealing her actual thoughts on the 'heartwarming' reunion. Vulnerable and ashamed, she turned away from the sight, feeling unwelcome in their affection and her eyes landed on the _one_ person she never wanted to see her in such a weakened state.

Merle _saw_.

Samara's expression reforged back into stone as the older Dixon scrutinized her without a hint of what lay behind that thick skull of his.

_Stupid! Never let your guard down!_

She ignored him, or at least tried to. She could still feel his predator eyes staring at the back of her skull, analyzing her.

_He _fucking_ saw._ Samara wanted to punch herself for her lapse.

Rick thanked Carol, hugging her tight. She had saved his daughter. Taken her out of the carnage and cared for her. He would never forget her kindness.

_Enough of this._

Samara threw away her finished cigarette and walked over to the three-man team that hung back, noticeably apart from the prison group. Her three road companions looked in one piece, sustaining only a few scratches and bruises. Rosita glared at Samara, no doubt the woman's death still fresh on her mind. Abraham greeted her with his usual stiff nod and Eugene preferred to admire the scenery, ignoring everything around him.

"What the hell happened, Abraham?" Samara put her hands up in disbelief. "How did you end up in Terminus?"

It had been on her mind ever since seeing them with the others. How had they gotten in that situation? They were supposed to be a quarter of their way to Washington, not stuck in a cannibal compound.

"Damn truck broke down for good and we had to go on foot." Abraham spat, exasperated with his bad luck. "We reached a train crossin' and the Korean boy noticed the sign and map to Terminus. Thought that maybe we could get some help from there."

"Well…that was a stupid idea."

Abraham grunted, reluctantly agreeing.

Rosita jabbed Abraham with her elbow as her pointed gaze traveled to Rick in an insisting manner.

"I'll talk to him, but not just yet."

"Talk what? The mission?"

Abraham nodded.

Samara looked at the happy people celebrating their escape from the jaws of death and the relief at knowing that the youngest member of their pack had managed to survive the slaughter. They were exhausted and on edge and all but demoralized. They had been forced from their home. Friends and family had died. Their safe haven had been shot down in flames…

—They had been dealt a heavy blow.

"Now's not the time, Abraham."

"I know, but do you think Rick will escort us to Washington? I told him about the mission, but would he be willin' to help us?"

Samara pondered on it, but in the end—

"It's not like he has other options."

"What are we going to do?"

Samara turned towards the group. Maggie had been the one to pose the question and it hung heavy in the air.

—What now? What were they supposed to do with no supplies, barely any weapons and no home?

Where would they go?

"For now, we'll stay the night here." Rick announced, his voice confident and stable. "I ain't riskin' walkin' in the dark."

With his daughter returned, color returned to the man's pale skin. He looked alive compared to his former husk self. He was the Kentucky sheriff Samara remembered and grudgingly admired.

"We got some food and water." Merle said as he lit up a cigarette, the last strip of light leaving ominous shadows dance over his face. "Not much, but good enough for a midnight snack."

Rick stared.

Samara held her breath. She knew Rick harbored an aversion towards the older Dixon, in fact he quite loathed him and she couldn't blame him. The Native wouldn't be surprised if the rest of the group held the same sentiment towards Merle. After everything he had done, it was hard to forgive and forget. It had taken Samara a long time to move past his transgression.

It was a crucial moment for Merle. It was time for his fate to be decided—either remain with the pack or walk alone. And it looked like a mighty battle was being fought inside Rick's head. If he wasn't accepted then Merle would have to leave…and Samara wouldn't follow. He would be on his own. They might have fought and bled together, shivered in the cold and shared cigarettes in the worst of times, but it had been done out of survival. If she had to choose between her friends and a man she sort of disliked, then it wouldn't even be a question.

—But, in her own peculiar way, Samara wished that Rick would have a change of heart. Merle, despite being a gigantic asshole and an infuriating pain in the ass, had some good left in that black heart of his.

"Are we gonna have problems?"

Merle's lips pursed in aggravation, but he shook his head.

"Didn't come back here with that in mind, Grimes."

The tension in the air could be cut with an axe. It was suffocating and keeping everyone on edge. Samara even felt a patch of cool dampness cover her forehead.

Rick's eyes narrowed.

Samara bit her lip.

Everyone watched the standoff in trepidation. Daryl chewed on his thumb, visibly stressed. It was his brother's well being on the line, after all.

Rick's lips contorted.

_Oh sh—_

He nodded once, almost unwilling, and turned away.

Samara puffed out the breath she had been holding. It was done. Merle had been given a second chance. A rare feat considering who he was. Now, it fell into his hands how he handled it. Either he played nice or he blew it in his usual crude fashion. If he screwed up, he could blame no one but himself.

Merle smirked at his brother and Samara could not miss the hint of smugness. In Merle's prehistoric mind, he won that round.

Their dispute was not over, not by a long shot, but for now the sheriff extended the white flag. Samara did not believe that they would never lock horns again. Merle and Rick were opposites and it was inevitable that they would clash again. Perhaps, considering their dire situation, every bit of help mattered and having someone as experienced as Merle on their side was a huge benefit.

—That was how Samara would have thought it if she had been in his shoes.

* * *

Samara was still awake even after everyone fell asleep.

She could not sleep. Uncertainty and stress were her night companions, conspiring scenarios and nerve-wracking thoughts into her mind. The Native had never been one to sleep peacefully, but after more than a decade she had grown accustomed to it.

Still…it could become demanding on her body and psyche.

After barricading the house, everyone had gathered in the living room. There was little water to drink and even less food to eat, but after the horror show at Terminus some of them had lost their appetite.

They had discussed in depth about Terminus and their vampiric diet. Merle had revealed his encounter with the woman in the memorial room—the story that Terminus had at one point been an actual sanctuary, but changed once the wrong kind of people passed their gates. The Terminus people had been raped, tortured and murdered over the course of weeks, but once the tides had changed they reclaimed their home, killing off their captors.

—And they had gotten a taste for it.

"_You're either the butcher or the cattle."_

Sad story, Samara thought. It didn't have to end in such a wretched way. They didn't have to become the very evil in order to survive, but the world was cruel—the ones with good intentions died first. The weak will forever be devoured by the strong and the Terminus people realized that far too late. Their combined hatred for all that was ugly and cruel in humanity had given birth to a twisted form of supremacy over the food chain, but their actions had damned them to the dark pits of oblivion.

—There was no forgiving cannibals.

Nobody had wished to add anything further. There was nothing else to speak.

Samara left the room she shared with Andrea, Michonne and Carol. If she had to be sleep deprived, the least she could do was seek some likeminded company.

The Native walked into the kitchen and joined the downstairs sentry. Rick sat by the window, watching the pitch-black outside world. Nothing moved on the street, not even a curious possum or a raccoon. The world felt truly hollow at night.

"Can't sleep?"

Samara's smirk was self-derisive. "Give me a couple of hours at any given time and I'm good to go."

"You should try gettin' some rest. We got miles to walk in the mornin'."

"You have a destination in mind?"

Rick shook his head. "All I know is we have to put as much distance between us and Terminus as possible."

"We should go to Washington."

"You believe 'em?" He glanced at her with skepticism.

"No, but anywhere is better than Georgia. Too much shit has happened here to stay." _You know that better than anyone._

Rick said nothing, but Samara could feel his agreement. Too many deaths, too much heartache…It was time for a change and what better way than moving across state line? It worked for Samara.

"What happened, Rick? How did it come to this?"

Rick sighed as his eyes closed tight.

"It was all goin' so well." It felt like the words were being forced out of him with a pair of pincers. "We had food, water, walls, a roof over our head, but it still wasn't enough. Or maybe we just had too much. I was actually happy tendin' to my garden and the animals. No more takin' care of others, just me and my kids actually talkin' and bein' a family. Felt like I could breathe again after two years of smotherin'."

After Lori and the Governor and his people dying, Samara was not surprised that the man ended up burned out. Too many demands, too many problems barking at him from every side had left him both mentally and physically deteriorated. Samara was glad he had found his peace, even if it had been for a short while. In the end, that was all everyone still alive could wish for. Those little moments where a genuine smile reached the eyes.

"We lost so many people." He pinched the bridge of his nose, his temple overwrought with frown lines like an old man's. "So many are lyin' dead on that field because one man couldn't let go. Because he just couldn't put aside his anger…I almost did that too today. I wanted us all to go back to Terminus to finish them. Not let one of those motherless bastards live."

_Huh…Great minds think alike, huh?_

"What changed?"

"Judith." He exhaled, almost in relief. "Her life is more precious to me than the lives of some cannibals. I couldn't risk dyin' and leavin' her alone, not after I just got her back."

In a way, Samara understood it. Not the kid part, but staying your hand for the good of others. She wouldn't be where she was if she hadn't been acquainted with that certain sentiment.

"How did you end up in Terminus?"

"After the prison fell, me and Carl walked for a long time. We found a small neighborhood and settled there. I passed out at some point with a high fever. I think I caught the flu that spread around the prison. Scared Carl almost to shootin' me, thinkin' I turned."

Kid must have been startled half to death. Alone and with no one to guide him, Carl must have either rejoiced at the chance at freedom or felt despair's icy cold grip envelope him.

"I woke up two days later, almost sick free, and got the surprise of my life when Michonne appeared on our doorstep." Rick's gaze was far away, a weary film over it. "We walked for some time until we found a sign leadin' to Terminus. We thought it would be a safe heaven, but I should've known it was too good to be true. Nothin's safe. The moment we arrived, I noticed that one of the people that greeted us was wearin' Daryl's poncho and another had riot gear I've only seen at the prison. I _knew_ then that we just stepped in the wolf's lair. I tried to get us out, but it was too late. We were already trapped."

Rick grimaced, no doubt blaming himself for the group's recent misfortune. He looked the picture perfect of the sacrificial saint.

Those sky blue eyes turned to her with a deep seated melancholy. One that she had not seen in a long time.

"Where were you?"

To the unknowing ear, his question sounded like an accusation, but Samara knew he was just curious about her own adventures.

"Far away. Texas, Arizona, California and many more. We didn't stay in one place too long. Couldn't risk someone walking on us by chance. Then, one day, I had enough of the west and we turned back." She shrugged, almost as if the decision had been that easy. "That's how we met Abraham, Rosita and Eugene. Merle said he wanted to get them to Washington, see what was up there. I guess I had no choice."

"Did you find what you were lookin' for out there?"

Samara half nodded.

"I just have one last thing to do and that is get to New York."

Rick frowned, but recognition soon triggered inside him. Samara could tell from the sympathetic sparkle in his eyes.

_You remembered our talk, didn't you?_

"How's the west? Any hope back there?"

Samara shook her head. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had wished for _something_.

"Looks the same as it does here. We'd see people every now and then. Sometimes we'd go on for weeks without sight of one, but it was always the same—hostile, scared, skeptical or just cannibals. It was rare to find good people and even then we didn't believe them. 'Always doubt the nice ones for they are the most dangerous'."

"Sounds like somethin' Merle would say."

"Where do you think I heard it?" She smirked, but it soon washed away from her lips. It was a dour reality past their walls. "No…There's nothing in the west, Rick. No salvation. No army to combat the undead. Just the unlucky few who are still surviving. That's why I think we should all go to Washington."

At the very least, it gave them a purpose. Even if there was nothing there, it got them moving. Anything was better than living in the past.

"I'll think about it."

He would come around, Samara knew it. At the moment he was walking through a haze, fearing the unknown. He had become far too used to the comfort of the prison, but, in due course, Samara knew that he would find his way back to the light.

"Do you still see _her_?"

Rick's shoulders tensed.

"No. Haven't for a long time. Other ghosts haunt me now."

"It wasn't your fault, Rick. What happened at the prison, you can't blame yourself for that. The Governor was an insane man. Hatred was the only thing he had left."

"I know it's irrational, but I can't get it out of my head. I just keep thinkin' maybe if I said somethin' different, somethin' to convince those people to give up on the Governor then everythin' could've been avoided. Tyreese, Hershel, Alice, Karen, the others…They could've all been still alive and we'd never have to be here, hidin' in some empty house with our bellies growlin'."

"You can't talk your way through with the Governor, don't you remember that? The only thing that man ever listened to was his own sick mind." Samara's four-fingered hand curled into a fist. She remembered quite vividly how the man's mind worked…and how capricious his temper could be. "The moment he showed up again, especially with a fucking _tank_, you knew it was time to fight because there was never going to be any other conclusion, not with him. Either he died or you did."

Rick was silent. There were glimmering tears in his eyes. Samara knew that he was suffering. His heart bled for the people he had lost and for a situation that could have been averted long ago, but it was _done_. It was spent.

—There was no use tormenting himself over it.

"I can still see Tyreese whenever I close my eyes…his head bein' cut off." The blood drained from Rick's cheeks, leaving behind a ghostly pallor. "The Governor couldn't even do it in one stroke. He had to chop like a goddamn butcher—"

Rick put a hand over his mouth. He wanted to howl and rage, cry and scream, but what good would it do except wake everyone in the house. Samara watched his internal struggle with dejection. It shouldn't have been like this. The man had suffered enough, but it was out of their hands. It wasn't like they were inviting misery into their lives.

Samara pursed her lips. A slow death had been in store for Tyreese. For those few seconds he had been conscious—while the Governor's madness was unleashed—Tyreese must have felt the blows one by one.

_Goddammit._

Samara squeezed the grieving man's shoulder. He should not go through it alone nor should he keep it bottled up. The man took deep breaths, calming himself into a clear pool. His hand searched for hers and clutched tight. He desperately needed comfort and Samara returned his grip.

_It's alright. We'll ride this storm together._

They stood like that in the dark, holding onto each other, trying to find some comfort in their mad, fucked up world.

* * *

Merle peered out the window, nothing in sight to spark his interest. Not even the occasional straggler.

It felt strange being back with the Atlanta group. It felt alien. He had adjusted to the squaw's cynical self, hell he even got used to the Texan ginger and his crew, but Grimes and the others…it would be trying his patience. They were not the sort of people he walked with. Then again, it was not like he had the luxury of being picky.

"Never thought you'd go with her."

Merle turned from the window and stared at the only living family he still had left, sitting on a dusty rosy bed that had once belonged to a small girl. Even the walls around them were painted bon-bon pink and a variety of multicolored plushies were scattered across the room.

—The stuff of nightmares.

"Of all the crazy shit you've done, that's got to be one of the most head-scratchin'ones." Daryl stared in amused disbelief. "When I realized what you meant in that letter, I actually laughed my ass off. I couldn't imagine the two of you out there together. Was even afraid at one point that you'd kill each other."

Merle scoffed in amusement. _Almost…_

"There were some _tense_ moments, I'll give you that. She left me in the dust a few times, but I tracked her ass down. Thought she could outdo this old fox."

"_Why_?"

Merle tsked. It was rather obvious, wasn't it?

"I got one hand less, brother. While it don't hamper me in killin' things, it does in other. Havin' another pair of hands meant I got to live longer. Just my luck it had to be hers."

The older Dixon had never been one to rely on others, not even on his own brother. He had been taught to be independent since the day he had been born. He fought and struggled to survive. Admitting he needed assistance had been tough for Merle, especially to himself, but in the end he made peace with the thought. It would do him no good to cling onto old beliefs.

Merle looked over his brother. He had no changed much except for the slimy mop he called hair. Like cows licked it so it would stick to his head.

_Goddamn fashion these days…_

"Daryl, the place's I've seen..." He whistled in exaltation. "Could only dream of 'em when I was a kid. Went to Las Vegas. Well, only saw a little bit of it, but I did go there. Hollywood. City of Angels is fun, man. Walked around in rich people's homes. Drank expensive whiskey. Played golf with their fancy plates. Hell, I even found an Oscar. Threw it in the toilet when I saw whose it was."

Daryl snorted with a smirk.

"Should've come with me, bro. You would've had fun. We could've even gotten that stick out of your ass too."

His smirk turned into an annoyed glare.

"I couldn't and you know that. We're blood and we'll always be, but my place is with the others. That's where I belong."

Merle rolled his eyes. _Same ol' song and dance, huh? _

He then got an idea in his head. Mean and petty, but it should get a genuine response out of him—

"Well, maybe it's better if you didn't." Merle grinned like the cat who ate the canary. "That woman of _yours_ is some kind of crazy and she's got a case of the wanderin' eye. Every guy we met up along the road she seized him up like fresh meat—"

"She _ain't_ my woman." Daryl spat vehemently. "She's free to do whatever the hell she wants. It ain't my concern."

"Whatever, man. Just sayin' that woman's got some screws lose, that's all. Not the bad kind, though."

"I don't give a damn. It's dead and gone, Merle. We ain't talkin' about it so stop tryin' to rile me."

Merle paused for effect.

"So then you don't mind if I try? She's just up my alley on the wild side. Got a nice ass too—"

Daryl's glare turned venomous. Even his fingers curled tight with veins protruding.

_Like hell you don't give a damn._

Merle could almost hit him. Stupid boy. Never get attached to a bird. That woman will just rip his heart out a second time, intentionally or otherwise, but Merle would not interfere. Daryl was no longer that little boy following him without a purpose. He was not Peter Pan's shadow. He was a man now. He made his own decision and dealt with the consequences on his own. If he got involved with the squaw all over again then that was his cross to bear.

Merle just wished he would admit it. It didn't do any good to lie to himself. The road to self-doubt was what awaited him and that was dangerous. Daryl just had to be truthful to himself and move on with whatever choice he took.

_Ain't that easy, huh, you ol' fox?_

Putting aside his brother's foolish relationship with the Indian, Merle was _happy_ to see him again.

"I missed you, little brother." He smiled and for once it warmed those icy blue eyes of his. "Thought about you on the road. Wondered if you were alright. If those assholes treated you well."

"You didn't have to worry. I was fine."

And like an unforeseen storm, thunder broke out—

"My ass!" Merle threw a purple elephant plushy at his brother, proving that his quick temper had remained the same. "Goddamn Governor came and wiped all y'all out! Could've killed you too, stupid!"

"Merle…"

It was a _warning_.

Merle pursed his lips. He had to calm down otherwise a fight would break out and he did not wish to tussle with his brother. Not yet, at least.

_Deep breaths. Count to ten._

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

"Should've killed him when you had the chance instead of just scaryin' him off." Merle spoke in an even tone, no trace of his earlier rage. A massive change in his old habits as the old Merle would have kept on raging. "I told you back then that the sheriff had to shoot to kill, but no. Nobody wanted to listen to Merle even if I knew better than all y'all. We ain't superheroes to let the bad guy live so he can kill another day. The kind of man the Governor was you don't let live, _ever_. Maybe then all this mess wouldn't have happened."

"Rick got no blame. If he did then all of us do. We were there also. We all agreed on the plan." Daryl cursed, his tense fingers raking through his hair. "Thought maybe this entire time you'd come to your senses. See things differently."

Daryl threw him a frustrated glower.

"You don't change."

_O ye, of little faith._

"Oh, I did, little brother, but that don't mean I've suddenly gone simple-minded. My eyes still work. You think the Governor was the Devil? Those Terminus people were demons? You ain't seen _nothin'_. I've seen things out there. _Bad_ things. Things that would've made your bones rattle and nightmares hurt. Things that would've kept you from ever sleepin' a wink again and scream until your throat bled. It ain't a pretty world we have left, brother. It's ugly and the people that still live on it have lost their goddamn minds. Desperation smells like blood, Daryl. Like metal and fire and raw flesh."

Daryl was silent, watching him with a wary countenance.

His brother knew nothing. Merle's sojourn around the south had been fun, no doubt, but it came with an eye-opening price. Merle had thought he'd seen all that evil there was in man, but he'd been wrong. There was no end to human creativity. No end to the sadism and malice.

He hoped Daryl never got to witness it. He was the more _sensitive_ of the siblings.

"You wanna know why I went along with Abraham and his crazy mission? Because I _want_ to believe. I wanna believe that there's somethin' out there in Washington. Somethin' that can make the insanity stop. The world has to come back to order, boy."

His hand ghosted over the small book in his breast pocket, a haunted look to his eye. Washington was the last frontier. If there was nothing there then…all hope was lost.

Merle feared for the future. The world needed civilization. Something to keep its last living survivors from tearing themselves apart. If his brother _ever_ joined one of the lost—

He did not want to think it.

"Is there nothin' out there?" Daryl swallowed thick, hope draining from his face

Merle sighed. What he would say hurt him both mentally as well as physically, but he made a point to be honest with himself and his brother.

"There _is_ good. I seen it in that sheriff of yours. People like Grimes who only want others to _live_, not just survive. Who could still tell the right from the wrong in this fucked up world. Who still care enough to fight and protect others even if they're not blood."

He'd seen it in Alice. And the old vet. In 'Bucket hat' and the Asian kid The blonde. The samurai…

Hell, even in scaredy-cat Milton.

There were good people left, but they were fragile. The good ones were the first to depart and what he feared the most—his brother dying. Daryl had a tendency to stick his neck out like a goddamn hero, never mind if it put him on the chopping block. Good thing Merle was still present to stop that from ever happening, even if it meant with his own life.

_Let's not forget the squaw, ol' fox._

While he did not hold any love for her, Merle could see that past her viper-like and bitchy attitude, she had a good heart. She just wasn't seeing it yet. The blinders were still on, unlike him.

Daryl's stared wide eyed, blown away by his brother's words.

_Still think I'm the same, brother? _

"So, yeah. Might not always agree with Grimes, but I trust he's got all y'all lives at his best interest. So, you thank your lucky stars you stood by his side. Could've been a _whole_ lot worse."

Daryl's jaw loosened.

Merle grimaced.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face, brother. Makes you look like Eugene."


	7. Let's Talk About Our Lord and Savior

They left at first light.

Some nuts and stale chips, a couple of bottles of water and a tiny spark of hope was what sustained them on the long road ahead. North was where the compass pointed, so they marched with trepidation and exhaustion along the train tracks.

Samara watched them. Her friends were at their lowest point concerning morale. Their feet dragged along the dirt and pebbles as if a great weight burdened them. It was a trial of strength both of the mind and body, one that they would prevail. No matter how low the situation got, her friends would bounce from it with their heads held high. Time and experience had taught her that.

The Native's stare moved over to Michonne. That woman could not catch a break. Samara felt immense grief for her and her suffering. She wished she could hug her for dear life, but knew that Michonne would just push her away. She no longer enjoyed being touched unless she was the one initiating it. A byproduct of the Governor's cruelty.

Samara adjusted the faux fur trench coat she had stolen from the house. To her initial surprise, it had been a man's coat and she wondered who had been so _fashionable_ to wear something that gaudy in a small, country town. She couldn't lie, though. It was warm.

She tentatively strolled alongside her friend. From the corner of her eye she could see Michonne stare at her with an intense blank look.

"I saw what happened at the prison." As much as Samara did not wish to reopen those recent wounds, she _needed_ to know that her friend would pull through and not go off the rails. Again. "I'm so _sorry_, Michonne."

Michonne remained unflinching. It sent red flags through Samara as the woman showed no emotion, not even a phantom of it. It did not bode well. It meant that Michonne had retreated somewhere deep inside and what was left behind was a husk on autopilot.

"If you want to talk, I'll listen. Whenever you feel like just having someone by your side, I'll be there."

Michonne kept on staring.

Samara said nothing further and kept on walking beside the swordswoman. She knew that when she would be ready, Michonne would talk. She didn't have to go through the pain alone. She would come out of her shell and realize that there was a light in the darkness.

The Native had no knowledge of how much time had passed. She just knew that they had been walking for some time when Michonne started speaking—

"We were out burning walkers when _he_ captured us. Funny how I've been searching for him all this time and in the end, he came to me." She huffed with an air of obscure disbelief. "Tyreese provided me with an escape. I only managed to get free because he stayed behind. I didn't have a choice. I couldn't help him, not on my own, so I ran."

Samara listened to Michonne's story. There was no inflection of emotion in her tone. It was all spoken in a detached manner, almost robotic in nature. It made Samara anxious.

"I was there when it happened. That bastard used _my_ sword. I couldn't stop him. He just—"

Michonne's piercing words froze in her throat, a look of despair and horror spreading across her features. She seemed stuck in the past, a never ending nightmare looping before her eyes. Samara knew she was reliving the memory. It would forever be engraved into her mind, never once letting her forget. Samara knew what it was like to have that sort of image frozen for eternity. Agonizing was the least word to describe it.

The sword-wielder took a deep breath and stilled her trembling hands. She appeared to be physically pained to speak further, but she forced herself to continue—

"The least I could do was give Tyreese eternal rest. I just…" That look of horror spread over her features once more, but accompanying it was a deep pool of heartache that seemed to have ripped her soul from the seams and left it floating in nothingness.

"I just _couldn't_ let him remain as one of those monsters."

Samara felt her pain. Felt it chink away at her bones. It was agonizing, like hot metal charring the skin only it was felt in the mind and not the body. She would never be able to forget. With time, the pain would diminish, but it would never go away. Michonne _knew_. She had felt it on her skin before. Her boyfriend, her daughters. Their deaths had left deep, bleeding scars on her soul that would never heal.

—What was one more to add to the collection, she probably thought.

The Native could say nothing to her companion. Sometimes the best answer was silence.

"I made new ones, you know. Mike and Terry." Michonne's jaw clenched, her lips drawing back in a disgusted manner. "I walked with them for a long time, blind and deaf to the world. At one point, I came across Rick and Carl's tracks. At that time I didn't know it was them, but I didn't follow either way. I _couldn't_. As I kept moving, a herd formed around me. Walkers must have seen me as one of their own and decided to join us wherever we were going. There was no direction. I had no destination in mind, I was…_lost_. I didn't know what to do anymore so I shut down. I went back to who I used to be before you and Andrea. Walking around aimlessly, just waiting for the day I died. And then I saw it. A walker that looked almost like me…and I snapped. I realized that didn't want to die. I didn't want to disappear. I didn't want to become like _them_, so I cut all of them down, including my own two companions and I ran back to those tracks."

Michonne turned to Samara with steel in her gaze—cold, taciturn and unbending. It was the Michonne of a year and a half ago, when they had first met in that small town shop. Samara could not say that she enjoyed the return of that side of her, but she understood.

"I _regret_ that Tyreese had to die. I loved him, in my own way. After Sasha was killed, he gave up. Nothing I said or did could reach him, but at least now he's with her. They're a family again."

Michonne's words sounded bittersweet and mournful, but Samara could detect the mechanical way in which they were delivered. As if discussing an acquaintance she knew at one point. Michonne was grieving in the only way she knew, by detaching herself emotionally. Shutting down seemed like an acceptable alternative to confronting reality. Samara knew that all too well. Sometimes, it was the only way to keep oneself sane.

The moment she felt strong enough to come out of that shell, Samara would be waiting for her. Andrea as well.

—Michonne was not alone.

"I almost thought you were dead."

Samara smiled. _If only…_

"It just took me a while to come back and I _am_ happy that I did despite everything."

"Are you staying?"

"…Depends if we go to Washington or not, but I'm not leaving until I know you're all good."

Michonne's eyes fleeted over to Abraham, Rosita and Eugene. She nodded and said nothing more on the subject.

Whatever thoughts Michonne had were unknown to Samara. She could become impenetrable when she wanted to, her mind a mystery. Samara wished none of those deaths had happened. That she had found the prison whole and the people content to be living there as a tight-knit community. Life was never that easy, though. Tragedy was never too far away.

Samara just hoped that Michonne would regain a smidgen of happiness one day. That she would be able to see the good once more. They lived enough dark days without adding more bleak moments to it.

* * *

The day had passed in almost a blink of an eye.

The group had walked kilometers with few breaks in between. Samara hadn't interacted much except with Andrea, Dale or Rick. She left Michonne alone, left her to her mourning. They had no more to say on the subject of Tyreese, only if Michonne wished it.

Samara had tried, but her own body betrayed her. Her eyes compulsively followed the Georgia hunter. She felt like such a coward. She wanted to speak to him, but every time she worked herself up, something held her back—a thought, a gesture, an expression. What a little kid she was that she couldn't even start a conversation…

The end of their first day on the road was nearing, the sun just off on the horizon. They settled off tracks in a clearing. It was good enough for a few hours of rest, if anyone got to sleep a wink.

Samara had gone off for some squirrel hunting. Daryl and Merle had had the same thought and moved in the opposite direction. The group needed food and what faster way to achieve that than catching some woodland critters.

A trek through nature had always had an impact on Samara's psyche whether she admitted it or not. Whether it was the dense forests of Georgia or the mountains of West Virginia or the desert canyons of Arizona, she felt at peace. A profound silence settled over her being, submerging her into a state of tranquility. It was beautiful, but frightening at the same time. She could never tell where her mind would wander in the quiet.

Rustle.

A rabbit hopped over some dead leaves. Tiny little thing, with a pink muzzle and rich, grey fur. It would be an easy kill, clean and quick. Just as she readied her bow, a twang echoed through the woods and an arrow hit the creature in the neck without sympathy. Samara flinched at the sight of the crude made bolt. It definitely wasn't one of Merle's.

The younger Dixon walked out from behind the trees, his spent crossbow at rest. He threw her a minute glance with that infuriating blankness before retrieving his arrow. The dead animal joined its deceased squirrel compatriots on Daryl's string of trophies.

There was a putrid indignity growing inside her, festering her mind with wild and almost irrational thoughts. He was ignoring her and there was only so much she could endure—

"You know, I get that I'm not your favorite person in the world, but the least you could do is _acknowledge_ that I'm even here."

Her snarky tone seemed to catch his attention. It never failed to work as Daryl never did enjoy her arrogance.

"I see you. I know you're here."

"No, you're looking _through_ me. There's a difference."

Daryl stopped with a rough sigh and faced her, his face a stone wall.

"I'm glad that you're alive and in one piece and that my brother's also. If you and him hadn't distracted those Terminus people I don't know if we'd been able to get out, much less alive. So, thank you."

Samara felt like tearing her hair out. It was all wrong. Their conversation felt hollowed by formality, something they were not. They fought and argued, locked horns and challenged each other. They could reach a bizarre level of affectionate in the heat of the moment, but they were never _polite_.

—It felt like an awfully played masquerade.

"You have no idea how thankful I am to find you and the others alive after what I saw at the prison. When I saw Hershel and then Alice, I was afraid of who else I might find. Then I found Tyreese and everything felt like it was crashing down around me, but at the same time I felt _so_ relieved that it wasn't Rick or Andrea or Michonne…or _you_. "

It sounded selfish, but that was how Samara felt. She shared a different degree of closeness with the latter than the former. It was only natural that she would be more terrified of the notion of their deaths than anyone else's. The two women were, after all, the only beings close to resembling siblings and Rick had always reminded her of her father. Daryl was in a different box altogether that she was still unraveling.

But Daryl didn't seem to take her words nor her concern kindly—

"Nah, it was the others." He spat with a venomous glare. "Hershel got shot in the head just for bein' a father who protected his kids. Alice for her kind heart. Tyreese because a twisted man wanted revenge. Karen, dead. Sasha, dead. Chris, dead. Bob, Dylan, Erica, Dana, Charlie…Everyone dead! And Beth…God knows where she is right now or what's bein' done to her. You say you're relieved…Well, I'm _mad_. I'm pissed off! I was supposed to protect them! That's why they stayed with us. It was my job and I—"

"It wasn't _your_ fault…" Samara cut through his ramblings. She'd heard the story from Rick—how Daryl and Beth had escaped the chaos at the prison together only for Beth to be taken by unknown assailants. It must have been a dark day for Daryl, an all-time low.

His frown turned into a scowl, burning anger in his blue eyes.

"Beth's gone _because_ of me. I told her to run. To get away while I dealt with the walkers. The only thing I found was her bag. It's my fault she's missin'."

He was wrong, but Samara would not dispute his claim. She knew how rigid survivor's guilt was like. She had blamed herself for John's death over and over again. She had hated herself for Daryl's hanging. Nothing anyone said could have changed her mind. Daryl was no better. He needed to come to terms with it on his own. He needed to understand that the situation had been out of his hands.

Deep inside, Samara cried silent tears for him. She had never wished that sorrow or guilt on him. It was gut wrenching and he could easily lose himself in it. Samara had for years and she was only beginning to come to terms with it.

She couldn't help him. Whatever she did or say would not reach him. He was just as stubborn as her, listening to his own counsel and no one else's.

Daryl walked away just as silent as he had killed that rabbit, but in that moment his steps were audible and his limbs tense. He had the walk of a man carrying a heavy burden.

Samara stood in the middle of the forest, nothing but the sound of the old trees and a few caws of some lone crow accompanying her. The silence inside her was deafening. It _bled_.

—Daryl was in terrible agony and there was nothing she could do.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

Samara couldn't sleep. She lay near Michonne and Andrea with her eyes wide open, staring at the sky above. It was a beautiful night, the stars twinkling like the reflection of the morning sun on millions of grains of sand.

For the tenth time, her mind wandered over to the man keeping watch. Samara wished they could at least be friends. She'd even settle for how they were back at Hershel's farm. Animosity was a far better option than apathy.

Her eyes sneaked over to the pair talking in silence, dread troubling her stomach. Carol had opted to join Daryl's watch, much to Samara's chagrin.

Their reunion had been too affectionate, too _intimate_. Were they together? Was that why Daryl had been so happy to see her? Or were they just friends and Samara was going mad? Even with that amicable thought, Samara could not help but feel spiteful jealousy heat her veins. Perhaps Carol had been defending her territory back on the train tracks, trying to steer Samara away. A sharp voice in her head whispered that her thoughts were that of a hysterical person and not her own logical ones. She knew that and yet, it felt so hard to pull away from that bitter possessiveness. And even if they were together, what could Samara do but sit back and let it happen? She was the one who left, she had no claim. Maybe…maybe Carol could make him happy and not angry or exasperated like she used to. Maybe she was what he needed in the long run, a soothing feminine touch instead of a rough and tumble attitude.

Samara grimaced. The thought of them together left her wanting to hurt someone, even more, wanting to punch herself for thinking like an edgy teenager. It would do her no good except make her sick in the head.

A swirl beside her and Andrea got to her feet, eyes half closed.

"Where're you going?"

"Need to pee."

Samara watched as Andrea took her rifle and disappeared into the darkened foliage. Without knowing it, her friend had broken through Samara's dark musings. She needed to stop festering over him.

Samara's mind wandered over to the black sheep of the flock in a desperate attempt to get rid of her tumultuous thoughts. Merle seemed to be doing alright within the group. He either hung around his brother or Abraham. The man was still wary of the sheriff and his power over the group. From his perspective, one word from Rick and they would all be frothing at the mouth for his immediate expulsion. Samara had tried numerous times to dissuade that way of thinking, but Merle still remained on guard. Yet, he had calmed down, his brother's presence soothing the wild beast inside. He appeared less inclined to nastily mock and more to nastily jest. In Merle speech, that was a _huge_ difference.

She hoped the old bastard would be able to carve his little corner in the group. Despite his brash and uncouth attitude, he was a skilled asset to have. If Samara had been able to live with him for nine months and not kill him, then these people could as—

"I can hear you walkin', you fuckin' pervert!"

The effect had been immediate—

Both Samara and Daryl sprung to their feet, weapons at hand. Instinct propelled them through the withered forest towards the shouting Andrea. Samara's focus was sharp and lethal. She was vigilant of every move in the darkness, of every rustling of crunchy leaves, of every twig cracking under pressure. Anything could be out there, from walkers to hungry predators to people with bad intentions. There was no room for error or someone's life could be snuffed.

The pair found the woman aiming her hunting rifle in the night.

"Hey!" Andrea spat, her eyes gleaming with adrenaline.

Samara reached the woman's side while Daryl stalked forward, the light from his flashlight illuminating the area. There was nothing about but empty bushes and forlorn trees.

Andrea turned to Samara, pointing in an agitated manner.

"Someone's in the woods! I heard them walkin' away after I shouted out. They were _spyin'_ on me!"

"Did you see them?" Samara perused the area for dangers, but found nothing of what Andrea described. "Are you sure it wasn't an animal?"

"Considering it only walked away after I aimed my rifle then I'm sure."

"You could've startled a deer or some other animal." Daryl approached the women, his eyes still on the spot where Andrea had singled out. "Didn't see any footprints. You could've just been seein' things since you just woke up."

"It wasn't a dream, goddammit!" Andrea hissed, her jaw clenched with indignation.

"I could check it out further. Make sure it isn't anything we should be worried about." Samara offered, not yet appeased that there wasn't a peeping Tom around. Andrea wouldn't have shouted out for no reason.

"No, it ain't safe searchin' through the woods in the middle of the night. We could get lost or worse."

He had a point. If there was one thing Samara hated was being outside past dusk. Dangers could pop out from any direction while her vision as well as her aim remained impaired by the darkness. She'd rather be indoors once nightfall hit…or at least high up in a tree.

"Come on, let's head back to camp." Daryl guided the two women back towards the others. "We'll double the night shift and you should get some rest."

"Who the hell could sleep after that?" Andrea grumbled, her body still wired. "I know what I saw. It was a person. Someone was watchin' me. I _felt_ it!"

Samara slowed her pace, allowing the livid Andrea to take the lead. She settled beside Daryl who seemed just as troubled as she was.

"Think it was some Terminus survivor?" She whispered, careful of Andrea's hearing. She did not want to disturb the woman further, not at that point.

"Could be, or it could be some other person or just an animal. Either way, if it's some_one_, then we've got trouble on our hands."

Samara cursed. It was bad either way. Was someone following them? When had it began? Who was it? So many question and no answers, not until the sun rose and they had a clear sight of the area.

She felt like her heart was about to leap out of her chest. The thought of an unknown person following them, watching them while they slept and remained unsuspecting had the fine hairs on her neck stand at attention.

—Samara did not like the feeling as if she were prey.

"I'm too wired to sleep. I'll keep watch as well."

Daryl had no complaints.

As the trio entered the clearing, they were met with wide awake and anxious people that needed a thorough explanation.

* * *

At first light, they were back on the road, eager to leave their makeshift camp.

If the group had been on edge before, they were frothing at the mouth anxious. They had been though too many hardships to wave it off as Andrea's imagination. The idea that a person had been spying on them without their knowledge was terrifying. Even the Dixon brothers appeared off their balance. They had found nothing of note in the morning—no tracks, no signs of a human or animal presence. Nothing had been out of place. It only served to feed their paranoia.

Samara, together with the brothers, spread out on the periphery of the group. They served as the sentinels, the watchmen of the group as they took on a different route, abandoning the train tracks. Every couple of hours they would change direction, hoping to throw off their pursuers, but Samara knew it was futile. Their group was too large to go unnoticed.

From her distance, Samara could see Abraham in deep discussions with Rick. She hoped the Texan would convince the sheriff to head north and join in the mission. It would be a massive relief to her. At least then she would have an exact location of their position and not scour the entirety of Washington after—

"We're doin' nothing but walking around aimlessly!"

Abraham was furious and Rick was in no better shape, judging by his clenched fists.

It seemed that their talks had gone sour in the end.

"We should find cars with gasoline in them and head for Washington! It's out only chance for salvation!"

"You're free to leave whenever you want. Nobody's holdin' you back. For now, I just want to get as far away from Terminus as possible. Let my people catch a breath."

_Dammit._

Rick still wasn't on board with the idea. Why was he holding back?

"We're already far away! What more do you need?"

The anger in Abraham was escalating to dangerous levels. Rosita was fidgeting, torn between stepping between the two men and staying put. The brothers made their appearance, attracted by the yells and Daryl strode near the pair, ready to stop a fight if need be. Everyone was captivated by the argument. The events of the last few days had reached their boiling point. It was going to end up messy.

"Admit it, you don't know what to do! You're just walkin' around without a compass because you have no goddamn clue on what to—"

"Greetings, brothers and sisters!"

_Shit!_

Samara turned with her bow, arrow ready to be set loose. She had not recognized the voice.

—There was an intruder.

A black man stood before the group at a small distance away. When he had sneaked up on them was a mystery. Everyone had been so focused on the argument that they had missed the…

_Priest?_

"Can you spare a moment to talk about the Lord?"

…_What?_

Samara stared in disbelief. What the hell was happening?

"Are y'all seein' this or did the mushroom I ate earlier gave me one hell of a trip?" Merle ogled the preacher with a baffled smile.

Abraham was the first to break out of the incredulous trance, raising his gun.

"Put your hands in the air and tell us who the fuck you are, right now!"

"I'm Father Gabriel Stokes." Despite being put at gun point, the man kept his calm. "I'm just a weary traveler, pleased to have found some company. I mean you no harm. I have no weapons of any kind."

"Bullshit!"

As Abraham barked in his usual gruff manner, Samara analyzed the 'priest'—he didn't give the impression of being unkempt or famished. He was well groomed with somewhat clean clothes, not in the least the picture of grizzled survivor. In fact, he looked like he just stepped out of a sermon.

—It just served to raise Samara's hackles. Nobody was that _clean_.

Rick stepped forward, cool as a lake. The priest watched him with a friendly expression, but it cracked upon Rick's unfaltering taciturn one. The former sheriff searched the priest for weapons, but came up with empty hands.

Samara could not understand. Had he been walking around the walker infested forest unarmed? He must possess balls of steel….or he was crazy. Amazing how the two coincided.

"How the hell did you survive without a weapon?" Rick voiced what was on everyone's mind.

"The word of God is the only protection I need."

_Crazy it is._

"You tellin' us you've been out here on your lonesome, no weapon of any kind?" Merle chuckled. "'Scuse me, padre, but them things out here tryin' to eat you won't be stopped by spittin' out a little scripture. This whole thing smells fishy to me."

Not only to Merle. Samara had her guard high-up. What if it was an ambush? People could be hidden around the forest, waiting for a signal from the 'priest' to attack. She did not enjoy the unknown.

"How many undead have you killed?" Rick interrogated.

"Not any, actually. I encountered a few of those _abominations_, but I was able to outrun them."

"How many people have you killed?"

"N-None!"

"Why?"

The priest was left with a gaping mouth. Such questions seemed to offend his sensibilities.

"Because the Lord abhors violence, but that does not mean that I'm not a sinner. I sin almost every day. But those sins, I confess them to God, not strangers."

Samara could not believe what they had encountered. An assumed priest still believing in the word of the Bible even after everything that had happened. Even after seeing the dead rise and devour the living. She'd seen delusional people before, but he took the cake.

"Who are you working with and what do you want?"

"I've been in my church, alone for a very long time. I ran out of food yesterday so I left in search. Do—Do you have any food? I'm very hungry."

There was silence on the group's part. They did not trust the man before him, holy garbs or not. Even less to share food wi—

"We've got some pecans."

Carl extended his hand, holding them out for the hungry priest.

"Thank you."

The man dined on them with ravenous hunger. He paused in his chewing once he heard a soft coo. Judith woke in Carol's arms and was rubbing her eyes with little, chubby fists. A kind smile bloomed over the priest's lips, brightening his earlier anxious and weary expression.

"That's a beautiful child."

Like a lion, Rick stepped in front of Gabriel's view of Judith.

The priest understood—don't look at her and don't speak about her.

"Do you have a camp?"

"No." Rick answered.

The smile had wholly vanished from the priest's face. He shifted awkwardly under the scrutinous glare of so many people.

What were they to make of him, Samara wondered. He had appeared out of nowhere with no ill intent, which was extraordinary in itself. Samara and Merle had met like-minded people on their journey, but it never failed to stretch the limit of their suspicion. Like Merle had said, they were the most difficult to trust.

—Who was Gabriel Stokes?

"You said you had a church?"

Michonne had been the one to ask as she inspected him from head to toe.

The man pointed in a certain direction behind him.

"It's not far from here. We'd reach it on foot in no time."

Everyone looked to Rick. They needed shelter and a good night's rest. Their bodies were exhausted and their nerves frazzled. A little stability would not hurt in the long run.

Rick seemed to ruminate over the idea. He threw the priest another look and stared hard. Samara knew those eyes. His lawman brain was analyzing the situation, reading the perp. Samara could see no indication that the man was lying, neither physically nor verbally. He was either a master manipulator…or he was just a priest who had left shelter yesterday in search for food.

Rick took in a deep breath, having decided.

"Take us there, but know this—if you're leadin' us into a trap, things will get nasty for you. Believe that."

"If I'm leading you into a trap, wouldn't things get ugly for _you_?"

The group stared, some in disbelief and others in hostility. Samara wondered if the particular man had a death wish.

"I'm sorry." The priest's playful smile wore off. "Members of my flock have told me that my sense of humor leaves much to be desired."

"No shit." Daryl scoffed.

* * *

Gabriel walked in front of the group, leading them to his church. Rick and Abraham remained close to the stranger, never leaving him out of their sight.

Samara followed at the tail end of the group along with Merle and Andrea.

"You know, I've seen a lot of crazy shit in my life. A priest still in his frock in these times ain't one of them."

"Guess you could add that to your collection." Samara grunted as she perused the area. While the appearance of the priest was odd, it did not mean that she could be lax in security. She had fucked up once; she would not do it again.

"It just seems all surreal to me." Andrea frowned in disquiet. "Do you think he was the one that spied on us last night?"

"You see that guy? He comes close to a geek, he'll shit his pants no doubt. Probably scream like a little girl while doing it. You think he's capable of snoopin' in the night for miles without leavin' a track? Ain't nobody goin' to those lengths to see you piss, blondie."

"I got a fine, great blonde _peach _that says otherwise. Not even a walker could resist that."

Samara groaned. Andrea just opened the flood gates called Merle.

A sly grin spread on Merle's lips, his blue eyes twinkling with debauched mirth.

"Oh, I'd like to see that one day. I always did love _peaches_, 'specially the juicy ones. How come you and I never hooked up, huh, blondie?"

"Maybe it was because you used to call me a 'raging, rug-munching dyke' back in Atlanta."

"Really? Huh…Must've been high."

"You _were_."

Merle chuckled at her sharp quip.

The trio paused as a building appeared in the distance. The church wasn't big. A small community parish called 'St. Sarah's Church' with white wooden walls and large double doors.

It seemed the priest hadn't been lying.

Rick, Daryl, Michonne, Carol and Glenn were the first to enter the church, sweeping it for any threats while Andrea, Samara, Merle and Abraham swept the surrounding area. The rest remained outside the church guarding the children and stranger.

As they searched the back of the building, Samara and Abraham came upon a bus.

"Aren't we lucky today?" Abraham ran towards it, a victorious smile on his face.

It was a bus, yellow and old. Its purpose must have been for the transportation of the church goers…That meant that a town was near and towns meant supplies, if it hadn't been raided already.

Samara rounded up on it and found Abraham trying to start the engine. It sputtered and died. With a curse, the Texan stepped out and lifted the hood, grey smoke spewing out.

"What's the verdict?"

"Engine's a bit torn, but not beyond repair. I bet I could fix it in a day or two."

"We should ask the priest if we can take it."

Abraham scoffed.

"That's new. You never asked when you tried to steal _my_ truck."

"Different times, Abraham."

The man huffed, but let the issue rest. They walked back towards the front, having concluded their exploration.

"You and Rick are not in agreements."

"He's a stubborn bastard." Abraham spat annoyed. "He said it was an idea to find a couple of cars and head north, but he didn't say anythin' about Washington."

"He will. Just be patient, Abraham. Shouting at him won't get him on the same page." _It's just going to make him even more stubborn._

As they rounded up on the church, Rick had finished his own inspection.

"I expect you haven't found any traps in my church?" Gabriel said with a wry smile.

Rick hesitated, but ultimately shook his head. Gabriel was genuine and his church was a much needed sanctuary.

"Now that we can take a breath—"

"No." Abraham interrupted Michonne. "We slow down, shit inevitably goes down. We should—"

"We need supplies no matter what we do next." The woman insisted. "And rest."

"That's right. Water, food, weapons. We're stayin' for now." Rick stared hard at Abraham. It was an undiscussable subject.

At their leader's proclamation, the rest of the group eased inside the church one by one, eager to rest their feet.

"Short bus ain't goin' nowhere." Daryl said as he passed by Abraham.

Abraham stared in incredulity at all of them. Samara knew that feeling of defeat, but he was the one in the wrong. It was not the time for his mission speech. They all needed a break.

A hand settled on Abraham's shoulder.

"We wanna roll with you, Abe, but if my brother's stayin' so am I."

Abraham looked to Samara for support, but she shrugged.

"What he said."

The man cursed under his breath.

* * *

As the group settled inside, they learned that Gabriel had been by himself, living on canned food that churchgoers provided for the needy. It had happened just before the pandemic broke out. Once the food ran out, Gabriel started scavenging the nearby areas, all except for one town which he said was overrun.

Rick formed a group consisted of Andrea, Michonne and Dale to inspect the town with Gabriel as their honorary guide. He seemed reluctant at first, but warily caved in. Daryl and Carol would head out to get water from a nearby creek while Merle, Maggie and Glenn would search for weapons and ammunition.

Samara declined joining either group. She would help Abraham in fixing the bus. She was no expert on car engines, but she knew enough to get out of a hitch.

As they worked, the two kept their words to a minimum. Their focus was on improving their transport situation than on chatting.

A couple of hours had passed. Of the teams, only Carol and Daryl had returned with a few full canisters of water. She decided not to dwell on them lest her mind go into a frenzy and wondered on how Merle was fairing instead. He had been paired off with Glenn, who in the past he had beaten black and blue. Glenn had not forgotten and neither had Maggie judging by their initial reaction to Merle becoming a part of the group once again. She just hoped there wouldn't be a repeat of history.

"You know…" Abraham asked once they took a short break. "I never asked, but when did you serve in the army?"

"You figured that out, huh?"

"You got the walk, the posture and you can't mistake that look in your eye. See it every time I look in a mirror."

Samara sighed. She never liked talking about her days in the army.

"I jumped on the army bandwagon when I was eighteen, served as a US Air Force pilot. Combat helicopters, mostly."

"So you didn't fight on the ground."

It almost sounded like a reproach.

"I'm a _woman_. It was a miracle I was even accepted as a pilot."

_Sexism at its finest._

"True. You women can't carry as much as men or even go through the horrors with a straight face. It ain't in your biology. You nurture, you don't attack."

Samara glared despite knowing the truth of his words. Women in the army, especially on the field, had almost always spelled disaster. From being raped, to mental or emotional breakdowns, to unsanctioned relationships, to not being able to deal with the job and quitting. Samara had been one of the few who had escaped those labels, fighting tooth and nail for her position in the hierarchy. She had built herself a cold and composed armor and wrapped herself tight with it, far removed from her wild and delinquent teenage self. Samara had learned quickly and painfully that there was no room for juvenile outbursts or reckless behavior in the army. She had had to be better than everyone. She had done everything in her power to be known as an exceptional pilot based _only_ on her skills, her gender ignored. There was only the mission and that was it. Nothing more.

—And she had been _brilliant_ at it.

Almost a decade later, she wondered if the attitude she had adopted in the army had stunted her emotional growth. It would explain her behavior since the undead rose. Perhaps, teenage Samara had finally escaped its subterranean confines and ran rampant without a sense of direction. Without a guide into true spiritual adulthood. Teenage versus soldier in the battle to inhabit the body and mind. A ferocious clash that Samara had detected even in her actions and words.

_Well…that's one of the theories, at least._

"Guess biology screwed the pooch on me. I'm more prone towards violence than caring and protecting."

Abraham chuckled.

"What about you, Abraham? You said you were in the army, but not much else."

"I was a Sargent." He proclaimed with pride. "Like you, I enrolled when I became a legal adult and never looked back. Been army my whole life. Never knew anythin' else but that."

"I only managed seven years. Seven _long_ years."

_Too long._

"Burned out?"

Samara nodded. Among the exhaustion there had been other issues at hand—her father getting shot and dying being one. Life took on a wrong turn after that. The grief had triggered the memories she had suppressed of the horror of war, her actions and the loss of lives, friendly or otherwise. Everything came crashing over her shoulders and she had to take a yearlong medical absence to get her head straight. That had been the end of her military career.

With the army's support, Samara enrolled in college and finished it in three years. The ink on her diploma hadn't even dried when she applied for the Marshal Service. From the sheer number of applicants, she had been the one to come out on top. Again, she had relied on her skills and experience to shine in front of her superiors. From there came four years of lawman duty which she quickly came to _despise_. The amount of red tape, bureaucracy, back room meetings and favoritism had suffocated her. There was no room to breathe only to follow procedure and sometimes even that hadn't been enough.

No wonder she had become so cynical.

John had been the only good part of those years. His arrival into her life had been a gods sent. She had never managed to understand how such a man had gotten under her skin. He was her polar opposite—calm, funny, easygoing, always with a smile on his face and at times childish. He still had hope for the world, still had trust. He was an upright honest man and followed a just moral code.

—She had married him not even a year into their first meeting.

They had had two years of bliss and for the first time, Samara had been content. The raging storm inside her quelled, the nightmarish memories were held at bay. He had become her lifeboat and she took full advantage of that, holding onto for dear life. She had taken him for granted.

But all good dreams have to come to an end…

"You ever get them?" Abraham's voice brought her back from her nostalgia. "The nightmares. The flashes."

That…was not something she wanted to talk, but Abraham understood her better than anyone on the subject.

"After I quit the army, _they_ haunted me for a long time. Everything that piled up in those seven years just tumbled out, but with time they slowed down. Became rarer. Then the virus happened—"

"And back they were." Abraham finished with an air of inevitability. "Yeah, I get that. You and me, we were already prepared for this world. We were bred to survive chaos and we did where so many others failed. The weak and the simple. We're strong. We're the _real_ survivors. If we got through war in one piece then this virus is nothin' but a breeze."

She couldn't testify to that anymore. Samara had been close to dying for at least a dozen times, teasing Death with a feather brush. She even had a chunk of an ear shell and a cauterized wound less to prove it. She might have the skills to maneuver through the world, but surviving it was difficult on anyone, no matter the experience beforehand. The level required had jumped from hard to insanity march in the matter of moments.

"Did you have a wife, Abraham?"

At times, she had wondered about the man, of what his history entailed before the virus. Had he been a dedicated lone wolf or a family man?

Abraham stilled before nodding hesitantly.

"Two kids, also. AJ and Becca."

"How did they—"

"Don't matter. They just did."

Abraham cleared his throat, chugged down some water and returned to his work.

_Not keen on sharing, huh?_

Samara respected his silence. They were all entitled to their secrets, but that short response had told her enough. His family had not had a peaceful ending and it still haunted him.

_Welcome to the club, Abraham._

* * *

Merle felt it again.

Ever since his pairing with the Asian kid and his pretty bride, he'd felt _the_ _stare _boring holes into him. It was unrelenting and bothersome. It reminded him of his prison stunts.

_Heh…The hunter becomin' the hunted._

The trio spent their day searching the town for weapons of any kind. Ammunition was scarce and soon would become absolute, Merle knew. They would return to the old ways, where battles were fought with sharp sticks and heavy stones. Good thing Merle knew how to knife fight. It would come in handy in the future.

The hunting store they were in did not prove fruitful. It had been raided long ago, leaving nothing but crumbs. The kid wandered off into the next door shop leaving Merle alone with his eye stalker. A prospect he did not relish.

The more time they spent together, the more the intensity of _the stare_ grew. If she was waiting for him to spontaneously combust then she was in it for the long haul. Dixon men were fireproof.

"I can feel you eyeballin' me. It's startin' to get me flustered, or is that your intention, farm girl?" Merle wiggled his eyebrows, a grin on his lips.

She did not seem to appreciate his overwhelming sense of humor as she scowled like a bobcat.

"I just wish you weren't here. You don't belong with us, not after everythin' you did."

_Here we go dredgin' up the past…_

"Sheriff says otherwise."

"Only because he knows you're resourceful, otherwise he would have kicked you to the curve and trust me, no one would've shed a tear over it."

"You ain't tellin' me anythin' new, sweetheart. I know all that and some." Merle swore these people were bipolar. While there was danger about, Merle was viewed as a necessary evil. He was welcome among them, but once the waters calmed…oh boy. The burning crosses and pitchforks came out. "Christ, it's been months. Haven't you gotten over it?"

_It_ being his 'tussle' with her man. A minor inconvenience in Merle's eyes.

…But it seemed the farm girl was of a different opinion.

"Gotten over it?!" Her eyes widened ferociously and sharp claws came out. "You beatin' my husband to a pulp ain't somethin' I'm gonna overlook no matter how much time has passed! Are you stupid or what?"

Merle glowered. He did not like being called _that_ or any other word related to it. People had called him that most of his life without even attempting to know him or his capabilities. He wished everyone just kept their opinions to themselves until they had all their facts checked.

_This prissy little bitch…_

She did _not_ know him. Sure, he was a bastard and a vagabond. Sure, he'd done some questionable things in his life, but he still had a heart.

Farm girl got up close, inches separating them. She was a pretty thing, Merle remarked. She was a fine piece to look upon—from her sun-kissed skin, forest green eyes to her slim, toned body. Had that down to earth, no nonsense country girl air about her. Was fiercely loyal and knew how to hold her own.

_That kid hit the apocalypse lottery._

Most of all, she was not scared of him. That was what her gaze conveyed to Merle.

"When you kidnapped Michonne and went off to fight the Governor, I prayed you didn't succeed. I hoped that you'd die there at the hands of your _master_ and it would've been what you'd _deserve_. A painful and lonely death, quickly forgotten by everyone. Even your own brother."

She was goading him, trying to make him react. What she didn't know was that Merle had been practicing reigning in his temper for nine months. Samara's insensitive and snarky attitude had seen to that.

"You brought that madman to our home."

Tears sprung to her eyes eliciting a silent groan from the older Dixon.

_For the love of God don't start cryin'_…

"Because of _you_ my father is dead." The words choked in her throat. "Because of _you_ my sister is missin', probably gone forever. We've all suffered and lost so much because of that bastard who you stood behind as a loyal soldier."

"I think you're gettin' confused, girl, I didn't—"

Slap!

"Shut up! I don't wanna hear your lies!"

_Grief's got a funny way of showin', don't it?_

The anger that tingled his muscles…Merle let it wash over him. He did not let it take control of his senses. The woman before him was _grieving_. She was lashing out as her heart broke further apart into a thousand tiny pieces. It didn't matter if Merle was guilty or not. He was the closest source to vent her anger on. He was not the sanest choice for a punching bag, but he swallowed his pride and let her howl at the moon. He wouldn't have done that just for anyone, but he remembered her father and the kindness he showed despite Merle being at that time the most hated person in the prison. The old vet had been a God fearing man and true to his doctrine, forgave him for his misdeeds. They all erred. It was human nature. The point had been that Merle had not done it out of spite, but to protect his brother. To kill the Governor before he killed all of them. Hershel had seen that and accepted it.

–And now, it was his turn.

He would forgive Hershel's daughter for her accusations, true or false, and for the slap. He let her push him and punch his chest and slap him until her arms exhausted themselves and become sore. He knew he deserved some of her wrath. What he'd done to her husband had been his error. Nobody had forced him into assaulting Glenn. That had been his decision and his hands were stained because of it. Kidnapping Michonne had been a mistake, but maybe, at that time, he had brought her along so she could stop him from his suicidal mission.

_Maybe…_

He didn't enjoy thinking about matters so intricate. It made him turn his eyes inward and what he saw was not always to his liking.

The girl was sobbing by that point and Merle had no idea on how to proceed. On one hand, he did not relish the company of crying women. They were ugly when they bawled and made a mess of themselves. On the other, he was not an empathic guy. Talking about or showing feelings were not his expertise. In fact, it was near the bottom of the list of skills he possessed.

He was caught between the rock and a hard place and he did not enjoy it.

Awkwardly, he patted her on the back. _Ain't this what people did in movies?_

At his touch, Maggie seemed to regain her senses. She stopped sobbing and pulled away from him as if burnt. Wiping the tears off her cheeks, her red rimmed eyes would not make contact with his. Merle knew shame when he saw it. Shame at seeing her in such a vulnerable state when she was supposed to hold strong against him.

_I ain't your enemy, girl._

Glenn could not have returned at a better time—

"Found some silencers. They're only two, but…"

He froze as he surveyed the scene. Merle could almost envision what he saw and to what conclusion he came to.

"What—?" His eyes turned to Merle with resentment. "What did you do?"

"He didn't do anythin'." Maggie sniffled before taking hold of his hand and pulling him away. "Let's _go_."

"But—"

"Please!"

Glenn looked lost. Torn between following his wife and confronting Merle, but in the end he chose what was most important.

Merle let out the breath he had been holding.

_Christ, I'm gettin' too old for this._

* * *

All three groups had gathered plenty of bounty—two shopping carts bursting with enough provisions to last them a few weeks, four jugs of water, two silencers and some crowbars and baseball bats.

It was generous for a first scavenge. Just what they needed, good news.

They settled in for the night, eating and drinking and laughing. A sense of normality settled over the small group. Even if it would be for only a night, everyone relished in it. Those moments were precious and few in between and should be appreciated at their fullest.

Samara sat alone on one of the pews, eating her plate of peas, carrots and ham. Her eyes scanned the entire room and could see no grief or sorrow on anyone's face as if the events of the past few days had never happened. Just people content with a good dinner and pleasant company. It was the little things in the end that mattered.

In the morning, Samara knew that they would return to their grim reality, but for now she remained content in their little fantasy bubble.

"Still sittin' alone, Samara?"

Samara smiled. _Nosey old man._

"No, just observing."

Dale settled next to her, a sluggishness to his movements. The two watched over their friends and family with serenity uncommon in their times.

"They're happy. Haven't seen them smile in what feels like years. After what happened at the prison I didn't think we'd find hope again, but I think there's some here. Kind of ironic it had to be a church."

Even Samara had to smile at that. It seemed like fate played a small joke on them.

"A little bit of irony never hurts if that's what's needed to make them relatively happy again."

Too much chaos and death could lead to recklessness and bad choices. There had to be a rest period for the soul to recuperate and start fresh.

"I just hope this isn't the last time…"

"It won't be." Dale smiled, a glassy shine to his eyes. "Y'all are a tight group. You'll look out for each other and keep each other safe. Give each other a reason to smile again. The future ain't as bleak as it looks."

Samara stared. _Why's he talking so strangely? You, you all and not _us_._

It was then that Samara noticed the glistening sweat on his skin and the labored breathing that he tried to so hard to hide.

"Are you alright? You look like you have a fev—"

To her surprise, Dale pushed her hand away as she reached for his forehead. A frightened split second danced across his features before an unsteady smile appeared.

"Ye-Yeah, yeah. I'm alright, Samara. Just a bit tired. Don't tell the others, but I think I'm gettin' too old to be goin' on runs."

The old man squeezed her shoulder in affection before moving away, leaving Samara in a bewildered state. Her eyes traveled to where his hand had been—a damp imprint had been left behind, the cool cloth touching her skin. The old man was sweating bullets.

Finishing up her food, Samara picked up her bow and headed outside. The old man had sneaked out while everyone had been occupied and Samara followed.

_Something's wrong._

* * *

She walked around the house twice and found no sign of him. It was too dark to track so Samara tried to hear his footsteps, but all she heard was an owl hooting in the near distance. It was like Dale had vanished.

Venturing through the forest, Samara cursed her slow approach. She should have followed sooner, but comfort and hunger had glued her to that bench. Something was up with Dale and she had to know.

_Goddammit, where is he? The old man knows better than to venture out in the dark._

She tried to think. Something must have happened while he had been scavenging with the others, but what? Rick had said that they encountered only a few walkers which had been dealt without incident and nothing else. Was Dale coming down with a cold? Even worse, pneumonia? He shouldn't be on his own then, no matter the reason.

There was a thought dancing at the edge of her mind. A tiny, malicious little whisper presenting facts and proof that Samara pushed at the far end of her thoughts. She would not dwell on it. She _refused_ to.

As Samara left the forest, she came across a dirt road intersected with paved street with a car parked near the edge. Was this the car Carol had talked about? Samara walked over to it and sat on the hood, lighting up a bent cigarette. It was useless searching in the dark, she knew that, but there was a sense of urgency in the air that she could not ignore.

_Goddammit…_

Where was the hunter when she needed him? The two of them and Merle could head out and find Dale despite the risk. The three of them together would make a formidable team.

Daryl had disappeared some time ago. He had finished his food and left for his own wanderings. Gods knew when he would return.

Groan.

A rustle and a lone walker walked out from the dark.

The sight of the walker stirred something deep inside the Native's gut. A primal fear. A dread bubbling at the edge of her consciousness. That evil whisper was back, poisoning her mind with foul accusations.

—Because in that moment she had seen a far different shape than the emancipated walker. Someone far older and _alive_.

Disturbed, Samara walked over to it and lodged her tomahawk in its skull. The body fell with a thud and Samara tried to continue smoking, but gave up soon after.

It didn't taste the same. It tasted _rotten_.

A softer crunch. She readied her weapon, more than ready to spill some tarry excuse of blood—

Daryl slinked out of the shadows like a vampire, a confused look about him.

"What're you doin' out here?"

Samara sighed in relief, her wrath diminishing. She pushed her morbid thoughts back in the darkness. They would only shake the foundations of her brittle sanity. There was no use thinking about _it_ when she had no proof, only allegations and her twisted imagination.

—Ignorance sometimes was bliss.

"I was looking for Dale."

The hunter frowned.

"Why? Did somethin' happen?"

Samara shrugged, 'oblivious'.

_Everything's fine._

"He was just acting strange and I wanted to check up on him, but…I don't know where he went."

Daryl approached with evident worry.

"He out here?"

"Didn't I say that already?" Samara bit, annoyed with his parrot behavior.

Her small slip of control only served to make the hunter withdraw and add another level of reinforcement to his walls.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little on edge. I don't—"

Daryl throws out a hand, motioning to Samara to stop speaking.

Samara waited, despite hating the interruption.

In the distance, a rumble could be heard. They both listened as the roar got louder until realization dawned on them—it was a car engine.

And it would pass by them within moments.

Both hunters huddle behind the car, hidden from view. The car sped on the paved street and Daryl jumped from his hiding place, looking after the car.

"What are you doing?!"

Samara watched in stupefaction as Daryl took his crossbow and began striking the front and back lights of the parked car, shattering them. He looked like a madman, a severe urgency to his insane act.

"What is going on? Do you know that car?"

It was the only explanation. Daryl was killing all light so the car could drive unnoticed.

He intended to follow.

"They the ones that got Beth!"

Samara froze, shocked.

_What?_

Daryl hurried in the driver's seat.

"Come on, get in!"

Samara obeyed without a second question, all thoughts of Dale vanishing from her mind. Their new complication took precedent over all matters. It seemed too crazy to be true.

Daryl drove off, the tires screeching on the frozen soil.

"What about the others? We might need their help."

"We got no time. We detour now and we lose 'em. I can't lose her a second time. I _won't_!"

Samara stared, that cloying feeling rearing its ugly head once more.

_Since when did you care so much about that girl? Is it guilt or something else?_


	8. When You Stare Into the Abyss

"Are you sure the people inside took her?"

"They had a white cross on the window, but it ain't the same car I saw."

There were more of them, was what Daryl thought. He was dealing with a group of people and not some rogues that just happened upon Beth that night at the house. It was a good sign in a sense. It meant that these people had a place to regroup.

He and Samara had been driving in complete darkness for the better part of an hour. It was eerie and thrilling, the unknown staring at them with black eyes. Daryl had no clue in what fresh hell they were being led to, but he was ready to fight tooth and nail to get Beth back. He would not disappoint her or his people a second time.

"What the hell is with that cross?" Daryl ruminated out loud, the urge to chew on his thumb a vicious reminder on the tip of his tongue. "Someone took the time to tape it. It's gotta mean somethin'."

"Could mean a lot of things—death, salvation, hospital, morgue, religion. Or they're just plain fucking crazy." He could almost see Samara's listless shrug. "We won't know until that car reaches its destination."

Daryl bit his lip, no longer resisting the temptation. He had no clue what they were up against. It could be some insane cult that kidnapped whoever crossed their path for some nefarious reason. It was then that his anxieties roamed wild—was Beth even still alive?

"Rick's going to wonder where we went."

The hunter shifted in his seat, thankful for the distraction. He did not enjoy the brief image of a broken and bloodied Beth offered as a sacrifice in some disturbing ritual.

"I just hope Merle doesn't do somethin' crazy."

His brother had a history of doing that.

"He won't." Samara scoffed. "Merle will probably think we're both out somewhere fu—"

Daryl stared. Samara stared back.

She did not finish the sentence, but he understood why Samara would believe that. On Merle's pyramid of thoughts, rational came third while perverse came first.

Samara cleared her throat, decisively staring on the road.

"He'll wait until we come back."

"You sure about that?"

"Your brother's changed." There was a wistful smirk on the corner of her lips, as if she knew something different. Samara did _love_ having the upper hand on him. "Might not be noticeable at first, but you stay with him long enough and you'll notice the little things he does. Even when he argues and cusses, it's his actions that speak louder. He's pulled me out some hairy situations when he had no reason to. Right now, he's one of the few people I'd rather have watching my back in a fight."

_Huh…_

Daryl thought about the discussion he had with his brother back at the house. Indeed, Merle felt and sounded different. Before, there had been a constant aura of hostility surrounding him. Daryl would always get a skin prickling sensation when around him, but not anymore. It was like his brother had become a hibernating bear, displaying his fangs and claws only when needed as opposed to when it entertained him, which was at his every waking moment.

He could get used to the new Merle. Daryl had wished (even prayed one time, long ago) that his brother would change his harsh ways and adapt to his new surroundings that did not give leeway to erratic behavior. He never thought that one day his wish might just be granted. Daryl did not know yet if it was for the better, but he dearly hoped so. Merle could profit from a bit of change.

—If Daryl had been able to then so could his pig-headed brother.

"Don't get me wrong," Samara started. "He's still an asshole. Just a _nicer_ one, I guess."

Daryl had to crack a smile.

"Why'd you two stay together then? Merle said the plan was to split."

Samara sighed, seeming reluctant to speak.

"That was the plan, but…when we reached Arizona we weren't supposed to stay for long, just visit my old home and then go our separate ways. Thing is, I didn't think that some of my people might still be alive. You know, I _thought_ I've seen everything, but the moment you see an actual Brave warrior sitting atop a horse, holding an M4 Carbine, it's then that you realize there's still much to see."

Daryl blinked.

…_What?_

If it hadn't been for the small red light blinking on the dashboard, Daryl would have loved to hear the details of that fantastical story.

"Shit, tank's runnin' low."

"Well, we can just run the car off the road. End this quickly. If they're holding her somewhere, you could just torture them like you did with Randall."

Daryl glared. That had not been one of his best moments. Necessary at the time, but grizzly.

"But if he don't talk, we're back to square one." Daryl did not wish to have a repeat of _that_ moment, not unless there was another way. "Right now we got the advantage. We'll see who they are. If they're a group, we'll see what they can do. Then we'll do what we gotta do to get her back. Nothin' else matters."

He felt it more than he saw. Those burning eyes of hers drilling abyssal pits into the profile of his face. He could almost see those angry pursed lips, the faint wrinkle creasing her forehead and the dimple on her cheek emphasizing.

—And somewhere at the pit of his closed off heart, the image _exhilarated_ him.

"What's she to you?"

"Who? Beth?"

"Are you fucking her? Or is it Carol? Or both?"

If Daryl didn't possess a smidgen of self-control, he would have slammed the brake causing both of them minor injuries. He was at a loss of words, staring in astonishment.

"You…What…"

He had been accused of many things in his life, but being a cradle snatcher had never been one of them. He somehow could understand Carol, but Beth? Where did she come up with these insane accusations?

Better yet, why was she thinking about them in those sorts of circumstances?

Samara's incensed gaze spotted a sign on the side of the road and like a fried lightbulb, her antagonism turned to confusion.

"We're on the I-85…Doesn't that road lead to Atlanta?"

Daryl had scarcely registered her words, still disturbed by her allegations. He couldn't even think properly to form a correct response. Hell, he couldn't even get angry.

_Let it go. Don't let her rile you. You know she loves doin' that._

With a deep inhale, Daryl focused on the road and not on the woman beside him. He wondered if it was too late to push her out of the car, but behind his incredulity lurked those damning words. They whirled around in his mind, the purpose behind them just at his fingertips. He did not wish to dwell further since it would open a can of worms he was not ready to face. Not yet.

Daryl glanced sideways to view the contours of her face in the dimness of the night—

It had not been enough.

Those months apart had not been enough…

* * *

His lips were crusty.

Dale tried to wet them, but it proved useless. His mouth was as dry as a desert. His tongue felt like sandpaper, scraping over his already irritated skin. The old man wanted to chew on the chaffed bits, but he refrained himself. In the nearby future, there would come the time where he'd be doing that with a passion.

Rick's decision on moving to Washington had been met with general approval from the others, but not Dale. Not because he thought it was a bad idea; it was the sanest choice they had at their disposal. But because he would not be joining them. He would never set foot outside of Georgia ever again.

Hell, he didn't believe he would live to see the next sunrise.

The forest was dead quiet, the faint current his only companion. He had left the safety and warmth of the church, unwilling to become a burden on his family or worse, to become a threat. No…he would rather disappear than force them through grief, not while it remained so fresh on their scarred and battered skin.

The fear was almost tangible. Goosebumps rose and his muscles quivered. Cool beads of sweat poured down his skin, dampening his clothes, but even so, he still felt scorching hot. Everything sizzled inside and he wanted nothing more than to be rid of his attire if it would only alleviate the searing sensation.

Dale needed to distract himself. Anything was better than pondering on the changes undergoing in his body and their inevitable aftermath. He thought about his life so far and he came to the realization that he couldn't complain. Dale had lasted longer than anyone could have given him credit. He hadn't been as springy as his younger counterparts, old age having taken care of that, but he had lived through some terrible times post-virus outbreak. He had survived the CDC exploding, the walker invasion on the farm, the war with the Governor, the flu outbreak, the fall of the prison and the escape from Terminus. He had one hell of a resume to boast with. So, it felt amusing that after so many harrowing experiences, his fall would be because of one lapse of judgement—

Always check your surroundings first before moving in.

He could almost laugh. Almost…

Dale had lived a good life with an amazing wife that had loved him to the moon and back. Even after her death, Dale had never stopped loving her and would often reminiscent their times together with melancholic warmth. He had thought that nothing would ever make him smile again, but then he met Andrea and Amy. He had been given a second chance—his close friendship with Andrea, his camaraderie with Hershel, his capricious alliance with Rick, his grandfatherly compassion towards Glenn and Maggie and all the younger ones of the group. His life once again had color in it despite the dangers lurking at every turn. He would be forever grateful that he had met those amazing people. The ones that had become a second family for him. He had helped, guided and protected them at the best of his abilities, never once putting himself before the group's needs.

His wife would have been proud of him. He rose and stood his ground against the onslaught of the living and the dead, never once cowering. He had done his part, but it was time to pass on the torch. Let others take his place as he could no longer do it himself.

It was his time now…

_Soon, Erma. We'll be seein' each other again, dear. Hope you ain't mad it took so long. Just had some things to take care of first._

Wrinkled fingers caressed the revolver strapped to his belt. He hoped it would be quick and painless. He never did much like pain. Would have preferred to make it as quiet as possible, but fate had other plans. Dale had to walk a considerable distance to wane off any walkers that might come upon the church by accident on their way to his body. Even his own death had to be calculated in such a way that it wouldn't disturb the waters, but it didn't bother Dale. The less danger his family was in, the better—

As Dale trekked through the lifeless forest, he heard a crackle. Like a rabbit he froze. Peering into the darkness, he saw nothing but the silhouette of trees and stripped bushes. Almost contributing it to his rising fever, another snap echoed. Paranoia set in as Dale turned around wary of stragglers. It wasn't a bite he worried about (_that ship has long sailed_) but dying by being eaten alive or using his gun so close to the church.

Twigs broke on his right and Dale aimed his gun. Fresh sweat poured down his forehead as his heart wanted to break free of his chest.

As he remained distracted by the foreboding noise, he failed to notice the skulking shadow.

Krak!

Explosive pain erupted into his skull, rattling his brain, and Dale fell to the cool ground. Before he lost consciousness he saw a pair of boots appear before his eyes.

"Not smart to stray too far from the group, buddy."

His eyes closed unwillingly, surrendering him to sweet oblivion.

* * *

The car came to a stop.

Daryl hit the brake as gentle as possible and both occupants of the car watched with a hunter's infinite patience. There was no talking or moving. They simply stared in calculated awareness, their senses heightened for any changes in the scenery.

The passenger side opened and out appeared a man.

_There's more than one then._

Daryl squinted as something bizarre caught his attention.

"Is that a _cop_?"

The man was wearing a police uniform complete with badges and gear.

"He could've just found the uniform."

Daryl snorted at Samara's suggestion.

"Who the hell would wanna dress up like a cop these days?"

"The same kind of person who'd wear a post-apocalyptic getup."

Daryl glanced at her.

_I mean, the woman did use to wear a Union greatcoat…_

Not for the first time did Samara sport peculiar clothes and accessories. It wouldn't be far-fetched to assume someone else would profit from the collapse of civilization to wear what they pleased without repercussion.

His eyes traveled over to her face, specifically the blue gunk she had smeared over. Ever since their reunion he wondered what the story behind it was. He also found it quite clique considering her lineage, but it had to have some meaning. She took great care not to have it wiped off.

Samara pulled out one of her handguns and Daryl tensed. Whenever she exposed her weapons, she _always_ meant to use them with deadly intent.

"Unclench your ass." Samara grimaced, reading his rigidity with accuracy. "It's just in case."

_Right…_

They continued to watch the officer and his mysterious behavior—

Thud!

They both jumped startled and for a split second Daryl feared Samara would accidentally let loose a round. A decrepit walker banged on Samara's door, scratching against the glass.

"It's making too much noise." Samara said through clenched teeth. "It's going to attract attention."

Daryl's grip on the steering wheel tightened. They were in a precarious situation. The apparition of the walker could turn the tides and not in their favor. It only had to make a loud enough noise to reveal their position. He did not want to be discovered and risk losing the tail. It was his one shot of getting Beth back and he would not let it slip between his fingers.

Staying as still as possible as to not further excite the walker, the inhabitants of the car watched as the cop moved certain junk around to form a pass. When he finished, his head turned right towards them. It was a moonless night and visibility was almost zero. Daryl was certain he could not see them, but he could hear the walker's growls.

Daryl felt his stomach clench into a tight knot as the man took out his flashlight. As he was about to expose their presence, the cop turned towards the white cross car. Words were exchanged between himself and the driver and with a shrug the cop climbed back inside, his curiosity forgotten.

The hunter sighed in relief. It had been far too close to his liking and it was all because of the nuisance tapping with fervor on their window.

The car drove right through the path the cop created and gone was it from their sight.

Eager to follow, Daryl started the engine, but to his complete and utter horror it sputtered and died. He felt his heart sink as his eyes zeroed in on the gas meter.

"Shit! Tank's tapped!"

He hit the steering wheel with desperate fury. It couldn't be possible. Not when they were so close. He tried again and again, hoping for some amount of fuel being left. It was useless, though. The indicator didn't lie.

Daryl let his forehead rest against the steering wheel, feeling his muscles relax with the understanding of his futility. It was over. His only lead disappeared into the night. He would never find her now. Fate had presented them with that car and they lucked out. He let her down again. He let himself down…

The hunter squeezed his eyes shut as a burning sensation assaulted them.

_I'm sorry…_

"They could have taken the bypass, but they didn't."

Unknowing or indifferent to his inner turmoil, Samara appeared calm and collected. Her eyes remained glued to where the car disappeared, her forehead creased in thought. Daryl could almost see her brain analyzing the situation with a cool, logical approach—the lawman side of her he'd rarely had a chance to see.

"They're holed up in the city somewhere."

As the fog of misery, self-deprecation and guilt dispersed, Daryl could see the rationality in her assessment. Nobody was crazy enough to brave a big city like Atlanta in the middle of the night, not without a good reason. What better reason than their hideout being within? The Vatos did the same, why not others as well?

More and more snarls began to accompany the chorus of the lone one. They sounded still far away, no doubt the activity of the straggler attracting the attention of his nearby neighbors.

"We gotta move. Find someplace to hole up 'till sunlight."

It wasn't a discussion. Their only car had been rendered unusable and the sturdiness of its design would not protect them against a hoard for long. Once they found a suitable hideout, he would have time to ponder on the new development and plan accordingly. Hope was still burning, small and vulnerable, but he would not let it be extinguished.

Disposing of the agitated walker, the two hunters abandoned their car and scurried into a side street with the sound of the undead never too far behind.

* * *

It was incomprehensible. He couldn't understand what he was seeing.

It had to be a joke. A prank. It couldn't be—

His leg…

It was _gone_.

"If it makes you feel any better you taste much better than we thought you would."

The man Dale came to know as Gareth wore a mocking smile, his eyes glinting in the light of the fire. In his hand he held a piece of roasted flesh that he gnawed on with fervor befitting a dog.

Sound distorted and disappeared leaving behind a thin, continuous ring that sent Dale into a state of numbness. When he had awakened, his first thought had been that he was among family, but it became apparent that he was neck-deep in enemy territory. Seven strangers surrounded him, eyeing him like vultures happening upon a carcass—

—An apt description considering how they severed his leg from the knee down, roasted it and gobbled it up whole.

How did it happen? He had just wanted to die with the little dignity he had left. Instead, he was being eaten alive by the leftover cannibals of Terminus. Worst was that he could still feel his toes wriggling, his leg muscles twitching as if it were still attached to him. Hershel's words came to forefront on how the phantom sensation had haunted him for months in the beginning. Tricked him into losing his balance on more than one occasion thinking he still had both his legs.

But what Hershel hadn't divulged details about was the pain. The _unbearable_, godforsaken pain that cut through his brain like knives and made him want to tear through his skin and muscles. The bastards had butchered him without the use of an anesthetic or even some alcohol to mute the agony. It felt like chainsaws were being inserted into his stump before every acidic liquid known on earth was sprayed over it.

_God, Erma, the pain's unbearable. I can't…_

"You'd think the young would taste better, but that ain't always the case." Gareth tore off another chunk of his dinner, a sickening pleasure burning bright in his eyes. "Some of us prefer the ladies. I think it's the extra layer of fat that women have. It's got somethin' to do with child bearin'. Even the skinny ones have it…like that pretty one, Andrea."

Dale glared bloody murder. The sound of his dear friend's name coming from those human flesh-eating lips made Dale want to howl in rage. He never had wanted to beat a man with savagery before until that moment. After Gareth had desecrated his body, the piece of inhuman shit had the nerve to taunt his misery.

"I think pretty women taste better too."

_Bastard…_

Tears welled up. It was too much for Dale. He had never been equipped to deal with the savagery and cruelty humans could produce. He had always believed in the goodness of mankind. That no matter how bad the situation got, not everyone was eager to let loose their inner demons. That they would stoop to their baser human instincts and let themselves become monster for the sake of living just another day.

"We're gonna get all of 'em, but for starters, you'll do just fine. We did a good job on your leg. We've had practice. When we started, it was about makin' it slow…"

Fat tears cascaded down Dale's tired cheeks.

Survival at all costs did not include letting go of one's humanity. His group had had numerous chances at revealing their demons and they hadn't. They had kept them contained. Life in their New World had not been gracious or forgiving towards them, but they never stumbled. They fought on without ever losing their compassion and their standards. That was why Dale had gone off in the woods alone. That was why he had to kill himse—

_Oh…my…_

It dawned on him them like a meteor falling through the sky.

Gareth paused as Dale's loud sobs began to disrupt his speech.

"Look, buddy, there's ain't no point to gettin' emotional."

_Of course…_

How could he have forgotten as it glared at him with bloodied bandages, but considering the situation, it was an understandable err.

Tears continued to stream down his face, his sobs mutating to a high-pitched laughter. A mocking, hysterical howl that could rival any hyena. It was just too hilarious. Karma existed after all.

His 'fit' attracted the attention of the other cannibals as they gathered around him.

"He's lost it."

"Lasted longer than I thought he would."

Their ignorant words added fuel to his maniacal fire.

"Oh God! What a bunch of idiots!"

"Now let's not sink to insults, buddy." Gareth's voice lost some of the nonchalance he spoke earlier in. "We can be civil about thi—"

"Shut up!" Dale cut him off. He was done hearing that slimy voice. It was his turn to speak. "You think I'm stupid? You never wondered why I was out in the forest in the middle of the night. Did you know that I was leavin' my people?"

With wicked joy, Dale pulled on the edge of his jacket and jumper to reveal what lay underneath. Between his neck and shoulder a large gaping wound exposed flesh and blackened blood with teeth marks around it.

"I was bitten, you stupid bastards! I was goin' off on my own to die!"

His terrible secret was out.

The desired effect was immediate. The Terminus survivors spat out the remaining bits of meat while others vomited. They stared at each other in horror as the disturbing realization sunk in—

"What the hell's gonna happen? Are we gonna turn? Are we just gonna die?"

Hysteria began to bubble amidst the group and Dale could do nothing but shout in satisfaction. Those monsters had gotten what they had deserved.

"I'm tainted meat!" Dale screamed at the top of his failing lungs.

"Everyone, calm the hell down. We cooked him. Everythin's gonna be fine."

"You're eatin' tainted meat!"

Dale kept on shouting between bouts of frenzied laughter. He could not stop. He did _not_ want to stop. He wanted to rub it in their faces just like Gareth had done it to him with his leg. The old man's compassion had evaporated the moment they threatened what mattered most to him.

"Shut up!"

"Tainted meat!"

"Stop laughin'!"

But he didn't.

Gareth delivered a brutal kick to Dale's face, rendering him unconscious for the second time in one night.

* * *

_Where is he?_

The darkness was merciless. It revealed nothing as she walked blind, searching for her lost companion. Dale had been missing for a couple of hours and Andrea feared for his health. He hadn't looked well, sweating like a tourist in a Swedish sauna.

_Dammit, Dale. Where are you?_

She could not believe that he had just slipped unnoticed. Had everyone been so distracted by food and a little bit of respite that it had made them blind to the world around them?

Peering through the night scope of her rifle, the blonde noticed movement. A shadowy figure moved in the distance, disappearing into the foliage like a frightened animal.

_What the—_

"Andrea?"

Startled, the woman turned to find Rick and Merle, both armed and cautious.

"Someone _was_ watching us!" She hissed, her heart trying to regain its normal rhythm. "I saw him that way. I knew I wasn't seeing things. Someone followed us here!"

There was no mistaking it. She had not imagined it nor had she dreamt it like Samara and Daryl suggested. Somebody was targeting them and she feared Dale had been the first.

"We can't follow." Merle said, his eyes weary of the darkness. "We go in there now and some of us ain't comin' back."

_Bastard!_

"Dale is out there somewhere. Alone and scared. We have to go find him!"

"Maybe not alone." Rick looked on with a glimpse of faith. "Samara and Daryl are missin' too."

Merle scoffed.

"Those two probably doin' the _hanky-panky_ somewhere. I ain't worried. They'll come back sooner or later."

The blonde did not have the time to analyze Samara and Daryl's peculiar and confusing relationship. Wherever they were, Andrea was secure in the belief that they could manage on their own.

She hoped that Rick would offer her the support she needed, but the man shook his head. He would not help.

The woman scowled in fury. Not long ago he led a search party in the dead of night to capture a violating piece of shit little weasel, but he could not do it for a friend in his time of need? Andrea wanted to show him some good old Florida 'hospitality'.

How had it happened? They had walked for hours with Daryl, Samara and Merle acting as lookouts. Those three were like eagles, nothing escaped their sharp senses…well, not unless it was a prie—

Andrea blanched.

_The priest._

It couldn't be a coincidence. Half a day after the Peeping Tom incident, Gabriel just popped into their lives. He had to be involved. In the end, the bastard had lured them into a trap.

Armed with indignant fury and 'bull-in-an-arena-fight' drive, Andrea pushed past the two men. She knew what had to be done. The priest had some explaining to do, willingly or not.

And she hoped he would put up a fight.

* * *

Andrea backed away as the priest lay on the floor, sobbing his heart out.

He had not taken Dale nor had he plotted against the group. The woman had been ready to beat the man black and blue until he spilled Dale's location, but the interrogation took a different turn. His shameful sin tumbled out without control, exposing it to their judging light. In the end, Gabriel was just another broken man brought down by the guilt of what he had done to survive. He was no different from the rest of humanity, no matter what garments he wore. Instinct won over logic, in the end.

Andrea could not understand. Someone was plotting against them. She felt it in her bones. Dale was missing and there was foul play involved. Who was it? Who were their enemies? Who would follow them across kilometers with such determination—

A melodic whistle broke the frenzy in her mind.

All her questions would soon be answered, she knew deep down.

As if on cue, her group readied their weapons. Before, their first choice would have been words, leaving their guns and blades as a last resort. They could not afford such leniency, not in such critical times.

Glenn was the first to risk a peak through a window.

"There's someone outside lying on the grass."

_Dale!_

She did not know if it was him, but her wired mind blurted out the answer most important to her.

Rick opened the church's wooden doors wide, but froze in place.

"Jesus…"

"What is it?! Is it him?!"

Andrea approached the frozen figure, desperation rising with each step. What was Rick seeing?!

The former sheriff turned, horror and shock carved deep into his features. Andrea hadn't seen that expression in a long time, not since they had found T-Dog's body being feasted upon by walkers.

_Oh God, it's him._

Her worst fears had come true.

_Is he...?_

He caught her before she could get a glimpse.

"You shouldn't see this!"

"Let me see _him_! Let me see!"

Andrea struggled in Rick's solid hold, cussing the man to hell. What right did he have to deny her? The others rushed outside, deepening the woman's hatred as she was held back. Cries of horror and sorrow reached her ears and Andrea's efforts doubled. She was like a wild mustang, rebelling against its unnatural bonds.

"Let go of me!"

The minute slip up would cost Rick as Andrea took full advantage. The man fell against the pews, dazed from the surprise punch to his jaw. Liberated, Andrea ran outside, ready to face the nightmare.

A prone form lay on the ground witch Carol hunched over, her ear to its chest.

"He's still breathin'! He's alive!"

"Oh my god…Dale!"

Andrea paled at the state of him—blood sprayed all over his clothes, half of his leg missing with nothing left but a crudely bandaged stump. Her eye burned as tears flowed down her cheeks, unable to stop them.

_It's all wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this._

"Oh god…What did they do to you?"

He looked like a broken marionette. Like a naughty child had pulled his toy apart. Dale looked so weak and pitiful Andrea could do nothing but howl in grief.

"Please, help me get him inside. Please!"

She didn't have to beg. Everyone lent their strength. They would not forsake their friend in his time of need.

Andrea's mind was a wasp's nest. She neither could see nor hear anything except for that bloodied man in her arms. She could not understand who could have done such a thing. He was a kind, sweet man. His heart was abound with compassion and love for his friends, and to all that fought and survived.

There was so much blood.

So much that it had crusted and turned black.

Black as the hearts of those that have done such a heinous deed.

…Black as how their charred remains would look like once Andrea was done with them.

* * *

She couldn't look away. Andrea had been staring at the same spot for hours, never once relenting. Maybe if she stared long enough, the mirage would part its thick veils to reveal the true reality and not the sorrow that she was witnessing.

But it was a wishful dream…

Reality was a cruel mistress in the end.

She could have lived with the fact that Dale had one leg less. She could have helped him accommodate to his new life, taught him how to walk again, offered her support both physically and emotionally, but…there was no turning back. No matter how much she hoped and wished and even prayed, there was no salvation to be found. Dale's time had come to an end and she could only wait until his heart stopped beating to give way for unlife.

It was a slow spiritual death. Andrea felt her insides wither with each gasping breath Dale took. In the hours she had guarded his bedside, his body had steadily deteriorated from his lungs to his grip on reality. The few times Dale woke from his feverish unconsciousness, he babbled with such incoherence that it made Andrea dread. The virus was unpredictable. A human could transform in a matter of days as well as in a few hours. Dale could die at a moment's notice, if not from the wound then from the virus.

—How could she have not noticed that a huge fucking chunk of his shoulder was missing?!

Andrea inhaled a sharp breath. She had promised herself that she wouldn't cry. Tears helped no one, certainly not Dale.

How could they have missed it? The bite had not been small, it was noticeable enough to see from a distance. How had they not realized the symptoms? Had they been so deluded with their short-termed happiness that they had chosen to ignore a possible downturn in the mood? Andrea did not want to think such a horrible thought. It made them—_her_—selfish. As if the pain of one did not matter in the grand design.

She _should_ have noticed.

_And then what? Suck the virus out of his wound?_

Andrea let her head fall into her hands. She wanted to rip her hair out, claw her skin off, tear at her clothes, anything to stop her heart from breaking into a million pieces. It was not fair. It was Amy all over again.

She was losing family…

Andrea bit her lip with savagery. She needed to think of something else beside the dismaying grief eating away at her, tempting her into a down spiral.

Rick and Abraham had argued over their ominous situation. Abraham had no wish to expose Eugene to the new dangers. Their lives depended on the man reaching Washington alive.

—In short, Abraham was leaving them in the dust.

Not with the bus, though. Rick would not allow it.

Glenn and Merle had gotten between the two livid men, pushing them apart before the situation escalated. Glenn had tried reason, Merle had threatened and even Rosita had whispered sweet words, but it was to no use. Abraham would not budge in his decision. But then he came up with a different idea—in exchange for Abraham's help, Rick's people would accompany him to Washington without arguments. Rick roared in indignity at the haggling proposal in such inappropriate times, but Glenn intervened once more and tore the choice out of his hands. The moment Dale had been attacked and mutilated was when the whole group decided their future and not just one man.

They had been given half a day to get their affairs in order and not one minute more.

Moreover, there was the issue of the missing hunting duo. Some feared that they had also succumbed to their hidden enemy while others believed them to be entangled in some other misfortune. There was no way to know not until Dale gained consciousness.

But Andrea heard Abraham's unspoken words—

If Daryl and Samara did not return before the deadline, they would be left behind.

"Ugh…"

Andrea's head snapped up.

Even through the dimness of the room, she could see the telltale twitches of awakening on the old man's face. Andrea hoped that it wouldn't be another delusional rant. Bleary eyes moved about the room before settling on her. She could see that Dale was forcing himself to clear his view of the fever haze.

"…Andrea?"

Sticky, crusted lips parted to give voice to the shadow that Dale had become. It was so small and wheezy that Andrea had to inch closer to hear, but even spoken in such fragility, Andrea could not feel anything other than relief. It felt like the world had been lifted from her shoulders with that one conscious question. Dale would not die… not _yet_.

"How did I get back?"

"You were brought here."

For a moment, relief washed over him before his eyes opened to the size of saucers. Fear and urgency wrinkled his features, casting deep shadows.

"You have to get everyone out of here, Andrea! Those Terminus people followed us here. They did this to me! Said you all were next. You have to leave!"

At least one of their theories was correct—the cannibals had chosen revenge, in the end.

But none of that interested Andrea. Whoever their enemies were, they were still flesh and blood. Thus, they could be killed. Their identities held no significance.

Andrea stared at his distress with an unusual air of tranquility, but on the inside a raging storm was aching to be released. The only thing holding her back was Dale's fragile state, but even that was by a thin line.

"Why didn't you tell me you've been bitten?"

Her voice cracked, sounding like a croaking frog. It took everything in her willpower not to scream.

Dale sunk back into his bed, refusing to lock gazes.

"I'm sorry, Andrea…I never expected to see you again, especially not like this."

Unstable fingers ghosted over where the leg should have been. Andrea shuddered, making a point of not looking. She needed to keep herself as collected as possible.

Soulful eyes stared with invisible tears. There was a deep well of sadness within the man, old scars and new wounds decorating his heart.

"Andrea, I saw my wife slowly die from cancer. Watched her waste away to nothin'. Becomin' one of _them_ is almost the same. It's a godawful process. I didn't want you to see that. I wanted to spare you that misery."

"You don't just get to decide that!"

Tears welled. Of anger and frustration and the injustice of it all. Her whole body trembled in chaotic energy waiting to be unleashed, but unaware how.

It _hurt_.

"And when I come back, then what?" The old man stared knowingly. "Are you gonna be able to do it? To drive a blade in my skull? Because if you hesitate even for a second, I could get you. They're quicker at first, you know that."

_No._

_No. No. No._

_It's real._

_Dale's going to die…_

She could no longer hold in the turbulence and hugged the man for dear life. Violent sobs wrecked her body as reality ripped through the illusion. There was no escaping it. The truth had been spoken by the man in question and her whole world collapsed once more. She would have to live the nightmare again.

"I'm sorry if I ever did anythin' to upset you." Andrea wept, her small voice reminding her of a young girl's. "I know I said a lot of things, pushed you away, but I was stupid back then. Too proud and arrogant. I knew you were just lookin' out for me and I hated that. I didn't want anyone's help. I feared that I'd become like Amy. Depending on others to survive and then just die in the process. I had to be strong. I never wanted to let anyone else go through the same grief I did because of me."

What other choice was there? It was either stand up and fight or die, and Andrea was never one to be sidelined so early. She learned, she adapted and she overcame the obstacles before her. Fear was a great incentive.

Andrea's grip on Dale tightened as she uttered her next words. Unspoken over time, but present in all their actions.

"I know that you _love_ me. Known for a while, and I love you as my precious friend. As someone who's been there for me through the good and the bad."

But she could never love him like he wanted. Andrea was not sure she would ever feel that particular emotion again. Neither time nor circumstances allowed for such affections. But she loved him in her own way. Dale had become a sort of paternal figure, a guardian of her wellbeing. He had always been there in her time of need and she intended to do the same—

"I'll be here with you until the very end, whether you like it or not. And when it's over…I _won't_ hesitate."

That was a promise.

Dale's arms wrapped tighter around her as he sniffled.

The night's obscurity offered the grieving pair the solitude needed as they wept over the bittersweet memories and the absent future. It counted as the last time Andrea spent together with her friend as tomorrow a red sun would rise.

* * *

Swift steps approached.

Rick paused in checking his gun as Andrea walked over. She was ready.

"I'm comin' with you."

"You should stay with Dale."

"No, I wanna be out there. I _want_ to be a part of this."

The man stared at her with sympathetic eyes. In that moment, Andrea wanted to give the glaring red bruise on his face a twin. She did not want anyone's pity. She just wanted to spill some blood.

"I know how it feels, Andrea, but this right here is the time you could have with him. You can't throw that away. You have no idea how much these last few hours mean. I didn't have that with Lori, but I wish I did. So many things we left unspoken…That guilt never goes away. I never even got the chance to say goodbye, but you do. Don't _waste_ that."

Andrea understood his words; knew that he spoke from the deep rooted ache in his heart. Time was limited and she should exploit it at the best of her ability, but how could she when the people that threatened that time were just beyond the walls of the church, waiting to devour them both literally and figuratively?

She would never forgive herself if they continued on living while her friend struggled to breathe one minute more.

"Do you remember how you felt? What you _did_?"

Rick nodded after a long pause, a shadow darkening his features.

"I have to do this. They can't escape, not a second time. They hurt Dale. They threatened us. We can't let them live. I know that killing them won't save Dale. It won't stop him from becoming one of _them_."

Andrea's fingers tightened over her rifle.

"There is something black inside my heart and it's tearing me apart. I _need_ to let it out. When Amy died, I kept it inside me like a tumor. Let it fester and grow until I almost ended up killing myself. If it hadn't been for Dale…"

_I wouldn't be here._

Those pale eyes hardened to ice, showing that even if he refused she wouldn't listen. Her need for revenge would not be caged.

"I need to hurt the people that hurt Dale. That hurt _me_. You understand, right?"

_Just like you hurt those walkers._

The reluctance was still present, but he would not stand in her way. The hand that found perch on Andrea's shoulder, although meant as a comforting gesture, scorched her soul. She grimaced, tears threatening to burst, but she held them back. She would need them for later.

Hatred and uninhibited fury would be her salvation for the next stage in the play.

"Let's do this."


	9. The Abyss Stares Back

Judith was still crying. She had been wailing for some time, announcing every living and unliving being in the vicinity that at least one soul still resided in the white picket church.

She made for good bait, Andrea thought sinisterly. Straight away, a wave of shame gripped her, but she pushed it down. There was no time to think of anything other than what was about to transpire. Her entire concentration and rage had to be focused in one direction before she did something she would later regret.

_Ah. It's starting._

They slinked through the night, thieves becoming one with the darkness. Eight souls intent on committing wicked deeds, but Andrea could only see them for what they were—

_Cowards._

Her grip on the rifle tightened, knuckles turning white. She and the others had been in hiding for less than half an hour when they appeared. The trap had to be set in a short amount of time, knowing that their hunters would attack shortly after dumping Dale in their lap. A classic maneuver, Merle had said. Ambush while everyone was still distracted and disturbed by Dale's plight. Fear made people do thoughtless things and their pursuers seemed to be counting on that.

—They really learned nothing from the destruction of Terminus.

Her group sat still as spiders, waiting for the web they had spun to catch a tasty morsel. Their waiting seemed to have paid off in the end.

The shadows approached the church, armed with rifles and guns, following the lead of a lanky, tall man. They were discreet in their footwork, but they could not hold a candle to her group. In the almost two years of living in the world of the undead, Andrea and her people had learned the value of silence in every action.

The leader signaled and two of his people gently opened the church doors. The entire group walked inside and Andrea could almost laugh at their overconfidence. Did they believe them to be that weak? Proving her wrong, the strangers had a sliver of tact as they appointed a sentinel to remain vigilant outside the building.

It didn't matter, in the end. That guard would not save them.

Andrea heard the signal. An owl's hoot courtesy of Merle.

A sinewy specter detached from the walls of the church, metal glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

The guard did not hear Michonne when she approached him from behind nor did he understand when a sharp knife parted the skin of his throat. Michonne lowered the body down, not a sound wasted.

_Seven left._

Another hoot.

—The flies had been caught in their web.

They moved in tandem, their boots treading lightly on the virgin grass.

It was time to bleed. Time for bullets and blades to cross.

Andrea could hear her blood pounding in her ears, her heart drumming against her chest. It was a peculiar feeling. For once, they were the hunters and not the prey. Andrea could not say that she disliked the feeling. The excitement and anticipation was building inside her stomach, crying for release.

They entered the church, mindful of the rotted boards that could warn their presence. Judith's cries made a good cover for any noises that escaped, the reason why she had been picked to act as the carrot. The strangers hovered over the entrance leading to the backrooms of the church where the others were barricaded, huffing and puffing and trying to blow the door down.

One signal from Rick had her and the others spread throughout the shadows. Andrea felt beads of cool sweat pool at her hairline. It was a waiting game from there on.

"It's your last chance to tell us you're comin' out!"

Gareth motioned two of his people. They approached the door, shotguns cocked, ready to render it to sawdust.

They never got the chance to raise their rifles as Rick put two bullets in their skulls.

_Five more._

"Put your guns on the floor."

The Terminus people stared in alarm at the clear-cut murder of two of their own. Gareth took a step forward, his handgun raised and aiming towards the door.

"Friend, we'll fire right into that office. So you lower your gun—"

Pop!

The gun along with two of Gareth's fingers exploded in blood and meat.

"Put your guns on the floor and kneel." Rick's voice betrayed nothing but cold, calculated intensity.

"Do what he says!"

Gareth's people obeyed his command, all but one.

"Wyatt, there ain't no choice here!"

"Yeah, there is."

Rick signaled.

Andrea and the others revealed their presence in the unlit church. She could smell the fear wafting off the Terminus people as one by one they materialized from the darkness, like wraiths meant to take their souls on the long voyage. They knew they were surrounded, but what Andrea also knew was that they had no chance of getting out with their lives intact.

The time for forgiveness was over.

Their fearless leader could attest to that.

Wyatt fell to his knees, a nasty leer on his lips. Andrea moved over him, her rifle aimed pointblank at his face. The anger in him was palpable. His glinting eyes expressed nothing but the pleasure of bashing her skull in.

—The feeling was mutual.

_Just give the word, Rick. Let it all end._

Rick approached Gareth as he lay on his knees, blood pooling underneath his mangled hand. There was a queer smile on his face, one of defeat and low-spirited hope.

"No point in beggin', right?"

"No."

"You could've killed us when you came in. There's gotta be a reason for that."

"We didn't wanna waste the bullets."

Even Andrea felt the simple explanation sent shivers down her spine. It had been articulated so frankly and steadily that she almost couldn't believe that Rick had uttered it.

"We used to help people!" Gareth snapped. A prey's last death rattle. "We saved people! Things changed. They came in and—"

Gareth took a deep breath, regaining his cool.

"I know that you've been out there, but I can _see_ it. You know nothin' of what it is to be hungry. You don't have to do this. We can walk away and never cross paths again. I _promise_ you!"

"But you'll cross someone's path. You'd do this to anyone, right? Besides, I already made you a promise."

—It took a split second.

Gareth screamed as the machete ripped through skin and flesh.

The hell gates opened and the demons danced.

The lifeless church livened with the screams of the dying. They were not spared a merciful death. They did not deserve that pity. Their demise had been brutal and painful. It was less than what they had deserved for all the lives they had snuffed with trickery and false promises. For all the scared people that searched for salvation only to fall in damnation.

Abraham smashed one man's skull with the end of his rifle. He didn't cease his strikes even after his prey stopped moving. Not until there was a fine mess of blood, mashed brains and bits of bone.

Michonne hit the lone woman unconscious with her rifle. Unlike Abraham, she took out her knife and stabbed until the last breath. The final touch came under the form of a short knife to the brain.

Merle, out of all of them, knew where to strike to make death last longer, but he simply slid his knife hand into his adversaries skull. No mess, no fuss.

Andrea would have bashed the smiling man's skull open, but he caught her rifle at the last second. They struggled, each vying for command over the deadly weapon. Andrea felt panic overwhelm her when she hit the edge of the pews, the wood digging into the small of her back. Her strength began to wane in the face of his sturdier one. Sharp as a whip, Andrea kicked him in the crotch, effectively cutting off his growing advantage. The man fell down to his knee, a grimace of pain on his face—

He would not get a second chance to fight as Andrea unsheathed her machete and hacked away.

The man's screams were _angelic_ to her ears. All the anger. All the sorrow and grief. All of them guided her hand into making that man hurt. To make him feel a fraction of the agony she felt inside.

_Fuck you! To hell with you!_

Blood sprayed over her face, but she paid it no heed. Gone was her sanity, replaced with barbaric impulses. Man was capable of causing great violence and cruelty and it had never been more apparent than in the macabre show befalling the church.

A thin, sharp noise took over Andrea's hearing. She was deaf to the thunderous screams of carnage around her, but to that one sound. It was maddening, but kept her focused on the task at hand—eliminate all threats.

Slow but steady, the thin noise began to dissipate and other sounds trickled into her spectrum, alerting her to the world around—

Blades chopping.

Heavy breathing.

Flesh squelching.

Wood creaking.

Bones crunching.

Andrea stared at the chaos, her lungs ragged and wheezing. Her mind was in a fog, taking the first steps in awakening from a deep slumber. She felt disconnected from her body. It was alien to her—her heaving chest, her crimson hands, the bits of meat clinging to her clothes. They couldn't be hers.

The man beneath her had become mangled beyond all repair. She did not understand where one end of his face started and the other ended. It was a distortion of blood and meat. A true Picasso painting.

Andrea felt sick.

_What have I done?_

Her disturbed gaze found Michonne as she retrieved a sword from her kill. It was long and sleek, with a familiar white handle.

Abraham spat and wiped the blood off his face, his gaze as cold as the knife in her hand.

She could not discern any thought or emotion from Merle's impassable gaze. The burly man wiped his knife hand with methodical movements, not a hair out of place. He was the cleanest of them all. Andrea did not want to dwell on the depth of that thought.

Her eyes found Rick's. There was no sign of remorse in his hard gaze as he stared at the remains of the massacre.

"We had to do this. They didn't give us a choice."

No, that wasn't true, Andrea thought. There was always a choice—

"But that doesn't mean we had to _like_ what we did."

—But they were done taking the uncertain one.

It was there, twinkling in those weary blue eyes. A deep sense of disgust for the bloodshed that had transpired.

It was then that Andrea's recent belief solidified. It had grown in her life a seedling, waiting for the first rays of the sun. She was with Rick on the matter. They _had_ to do it. So that what befell Dale wouldn't happen again. She had thought at first that it had been her rage driving her ruthless actions, but as their enemies were no more, the feeling did not leave her. In the end, it was just _her_. A dormant side that had long been overdue to see the light.

Their opinion did not matter, whether they liked it or not.

In the end it was for the greater good.

Maggie and Glenn had not participated, but their expressions said it all. Horror and shock as they had watched their friends turn into blood-thirsty beasts, hacking and slashing away at their own kind. In that moment they had been no different than the ones they had been killing.

Andrea turned from them. Let them keep their hands clean. The world needed people like that still, but she would do what was necessary for the better life of the group. She would sacrifice her decency so that others could keep on carrying the torch of what was left of humanity. She would carry them on her blood soaked shoulders so their hands remained unsoiled.

She vowed that in that moment, drenched in the blood of her hunter turned victim.

She had been too weak and ignorant to protect Amy and her sister had met a painful end.

She had been too coddled to protect the people in the prison because she still believed in the good of mankind.

She had been too ignorant and blind to notice Dale's plight.

She was _done_ being that person.

Her gaze met Rick's and a brief understanding passed between them. He could count on her from that moment on.

Gabriel was the first to walk out of hiding. His whole body trembled at the sight of death staining his pristine church floor.

"T-This is unacceptable. I just can't think of any way to justify…_this_."

His words ignited a violent fire within Andrea.

"You let people you knew—"

"Stop."

Rick walked over to the priest, cornering Gabriel like a terrified animal. The former sheriff looked downright lethal as blood decorated his face. His eyes exuded a sense of doomed inevitability, intimidating the fearful priest into submission.

"These people killed dozens, maybe hundreds of innocent people lookin' for a safe place to live in, and ate them. I saw their home. Their butcher's place where people like you and me were brought in like cattle and executed. Strung up and bled out and had their insides taken out. The meat neatly stacked and preserved so it didn't spoil. They were gonna do the same thing to my friends, my son, my daughter. My family. _This_, no matter how much you or I are disgusted by it, stopped that. It's hard, but maybe if you've seen those people you locked out of your church, watched them gettin' ripped apart, had their blood splash back on you, instead of hidin' behind a door, you'd be willin' to do anythin' to keep that from happenin' again. Maybe then you'd understand."

Gabriel cried at this point, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His body fell against the altar, unable to gather the strength to hold himself up.

"Th-This is the Lord's h-house."

"Nah, padre."

Merle threw the bloodied rag from his pristine blade.

"It's just four walls and a roof."

Andrea watched the bawling priest with apathy. Stared at his bleeding heart with no trace of emotion. He was a weak person. One of the many that could not live in their new world and needed her to protect them.

She stepped over to the mangled bodies. They had to be removed else they would stink up the place.

After that…she would clean up and stay by Dale's side until the end.

* * *

Rick knocked on Gabriel's office door.

He felt tired. The meat on his bones ached and his temple throbbed. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but it was a luxury he could not afford. They had cleaned up the church at the best of their ability. After, everyone had sat in terse silence, a dark cloud hovering above them. There had been no reason for words, only silent reflection. What had happened had taken a toll out of all of them, either physical or psychological. Rick was aware that their actions had not been for the faint of heart. It was bound to leave deep, lasting scars.

His son had not looked at him once since the sordid event. Another problem he had to deal with.

_Nothin's ever easy…_

Inside, Andrea talked with Dale in hushed tones. At the sight of him, Dale said something to Andrea to which she nodded and left the room. The two shared a glance and Rick saw both the strength and the horror of what they had done, but nonetheless the woman did not judge him or stare with resentful eyes. She smiled in fatigue and mouthed a 'thank you'.

Rick said nothing, but felt small relief lighten the ache in his heart.

He sat on the vacant chair next to the bed, ready for anything the grandfather of the group had to lay on him. Knowing Dale, it was probably a lot.

The old man chuckled, despite the frailness of his body.

"I'm not gonna lecture you, Rick. You don't need to keep your guard up."

_That's a first._

He looked awful. Dale looked like he was already dead, but nobody had announced him. The paleness of his skin reminded Rick of a cadaver and if it weren't for the sickly sheen of sweat, the sporadic quivering of his body and the feverish gaze, Rick would have believed him a vampire.

"I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being the leader of our little group even when we didn't want you to be. It was never about bossin' or controllin' people. The decisions you had to make, the consequences of those decisions—none of us were prepared to carry that burden or responsibility. You didn't want it, but you took it all the same. I have to admit, there were times where I thought you were dangerous. I blamed you for many things that happened, but sittin' here at the end, I can see. It's easy to blame you for what happened at times and that's the burden for takin' control, for takin' care of strangers, tryin' to protect us. It's not as easy to give you credit for things that _didn't_ happen. A lot of people are dead, but look at how long this group has lasted. I think that's you fault, too. You helped me this long. Gave me the time I had with Andrea, Glenn, Hershel, all the others, and I appreciate that very much."

Dale smiled with warmth. A flicker of his old self in a decaying body.

"So thank you."

There was a knot in Rick's throat. He wanted nothing more than to cry his eyes out and yell. Purge his sorrows and tribulations and fears from his body, but instead he nodded in gratitude. Dale had contradicted him on numerous times, but never out of spite. He too looked for the best interest of the group, albeit a more spiritual one. Rick could never hate him for that.

He understood Rick just as Rick understood him.

The heart could never die, was what Dale preached, and Rick had learnt from that. No matter how dark the world became, how dark _he_ became…his soul was in his children's safeguard and nobody could ever take that away. That was his still beating heart, not the one in his chest. And one day, his children would pass along their hearts for safe-keeping just like he had.

Dale's heart would live on within them. His teaching and views would still be felt whenever a decision would be made, keeping them from plunging further into irrevocable darkness. That had been his gifts towards them.

"And after I'm dead, you promise me you'll look after Andrea. Don't let her fall into despair again."

"I don't think you need to worry, Dale." Rick massaged his jaw as phantom pain throbbed for a moment. "She's a tough woman."

Dale smiled, but his grin turned into a bloody cough.

Rick watched in regret as the man struggled to breathe. It had taken Jim two days to die. Dale wouldn't get that long, not with his advanced age and the leg. Perhaps…that was for the best. No need to prolong his despair and hurt.

He was the lucky one, Rick thought. He got to punch out his ticket at an age many would never reach again. He wouldn't have to struggle anymore for an uncertain future. Wouldn't have to deal with the pain of being left alive while others bled.

He would know peace and quiet.

_Thanks for everythin', Dale. For bein' with us through the good and hard times. _

_For just bein'._

* * *

Andrea's eyes stung.

The sun shied just over the horizon and she hadn't slept a wink. Fear had gripped her. Fear that Dale would breathe his last breath while she dozed in oblivion.

No sound came from the church. Everyone had either gone to bed or resigned themselves to silent brooding. There had been nothing else to do after the battle than recharge themselves for the next day. For other inevitable events that would scar them.

Dale appeared so feeble and emaciated in the pale morning brightness. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the last couple of hours. Andrea felt despair swell within her breast. She wanted to stop the cruel flow of time. Stop it from killing her friend, but it was unavoidable. His end had been chiseled in stone.

She had told him nothing of what had transpired with the Terminus people. Andrea had not seen the reason to divulge something that would break his heart. Ignorance was bliss and she wanted him to leave their world without sorrow plaguing his last heartbeat.

A rasp.

A cough.

A slither of blood leaked from Dale's parted lips.

Andrea's fingers gripped his wrinkled hand.

_Oh god._

A wet gargle deep within his throat.

_It's starting._

Dale's whole body began to shake violently.

Andrea held onto his hand, almost crushing the frail bones. Furious tears poured down her cheeks, her teeth grinding against one another. She felt hot. Her mind was a cacophony of pleas, prayers and cusses. She couldn't think, couldn't act. She could only sit and watch as Dale's body shut down.

—Andrea hadn't felt that mind-numbing helplessness since Amy had died and she wanted nothing more than to crawl within herself and die.

Dale spat and choked as blood filled his lungs and throat. The horrible sounds he produced would haunt Andrea for a long time to come.

_Please._

His organs were failing. She didn't need to see, she could only smell as the bowel's emptied. The body was entering lockdown, the muscles straining and relaxing at an alarming rate.

_Please…_

The blood vessels underneath his skin exploded from the severe stress, coloring his skin a palette of red and purple. Andrea could hear cracks in his jaw as teeth chipped under the tautness of the mouth. It reminded her of popcorn being microwaved.

_Please, just die!_

He stopped.

Andrea's wet eyes stared in horror.

Dale let out one last ragged breath before his body remained still.

The woman stopped the scream that threatened to escape. She howled in the palm of her hands, muting her sorrow.

_Oh god…_

Andrea had never felt more alone. The one man that saved her life, that helped her get back to her feet in her darkest hour. That protected and cared for her. That loved her unconditionally and would have given his life for her was _dead_.

—Dale was gone and he was never coming back.

She took out her knife with trembling fingers. She wished to God she didn't have to be the one to do it, but she owed him. If there was anyone to put him to eternal rest, it was Andrea, and she would not disappoint him.

The tip of the blade pricked the side of his temple.

Andrea stared at his familiar features with painful sorrow. She had to do it. Dale was nothing more than a corpse waiting to be reanimated. If she wasn't fast enough…

With a strangled sob, the knife speared into his brain.

* * *

Andrea sat in silent numbness, her eyes frozen on the distant horizon that could be seen through the window. The tears kept on pouring, but she paid them no heed. The actions of her body did not intrigue her as her mind was far beyond her conscious reach.

She sat, lost in a daze, as the first ray of light illuminated the room that reeked of death.

The warm, spring sun hit her skin, but she felt nothing. Nothing but merciless ice.

Andrea closed her eyes and drifted.

* * *

The fire burned bright in the morning sun, his eyes mesmerized by the twirling and undulating flames. Rick felt the heat lick his skin, enveloping him in a warm embrace—

But there was nothing warm or embracing about the funeral pyre. It was there to incinerate all evidence of a human being. Of a cherished friend.

Andrea had told them of Dale's wish for cremation as to not waste any of their time digging a hole. Even dying, Dale still thought of the better of the group. Rick had to take his metaphorical hat off to him.

Everyone stood forlorn as they listened to the pops and crackles of the wood. Stared at the ashes floating into the sky, mimicking morose snowflakes. Some cried while others kept a solemn vigil. Andrea's cried absent tears, her body no longer capable of producing them. Maggie held onto Glenn's hand as silent tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to overflow. Carol too took on a more reserved approach, contrary to what she would have done a year ago.

Looking at them, Rick realized with concerning clarity how few of them were left. A week ago they had numbered in the dozens and in the present, they were just a handful. They had lost so many people, so many friends and family. None of them had come out unscarred.

And Rick knew that one by one, they would disappear, succumbing to the unforgiving world around them. In some dark corner of his mind, pitiless thoughts shrieked that the missing Daryl and Samara would be among the first to join the ranks of the dead.

Rick looked towards his children. Carl held onto his sister with mournful disquiet as tears spilled, his eyes watching the infernal show with exhaustion. Months ago he would have never displayed such emotion, preferring to hide behind a façade of apathy. Once children had appeared at the prison, Carl seemed to come out of his shell and enjoy boyhood again.

That was over.

The dream was gone and Rick could see it clear as day. His son was dragging himself, reverting back to his old shell. Keeping a strong front while his soul died little by little. Rick had never wished that feeling for his children.

—Rick's only hope was that he got to die first. He didn't want to think on the alternative.

Watching the body engulfed in flames, Rick could feel despondency prickle his skin. Even if it made his heart clench in ache, he had to stand tall. He was the rock. He needed to be strong for his children, for his people.

Dale would've wanted that. To keep on leading them towards a brighter tomorrow even where there was none.

One by one, people retreated. Despite their sorrow, they had to pack. Neither Samara nor Daryl had showed up and the twelfth hour was almost upon them. A deal was a deal.

Rick had decided that he would remain behind. Him and his kids, Michonne, Carol and Merle. The rest would leave with Abraham.

"Rick."

Abraham stood before him, cold business in his gaze.

The time for mourning was over. Rick had to get back to the living.

"Andrea, can you go with Carl back to the church?"

The blonde had been among the last to remain at the pyre. Despite her hesitation, she urged the boy to move along with his sister.

"You don't have to stay." Abraham spoke once they were alone. "Merle already volunteered to stay behind on his own and wait for his brother and Samara. You and your kids would be better off if you came with me."

"I know, but I have to. Two of my people are out there and I can't abandon them. We either find them alive or dead. There ain't no other way."

What leader would he be if at the first sign of trouble he would write them off as dead and depart?

"You know, Dale had me rethinkin' a lot of things. He resisted a lot of my decisions that I saw as necessary. He wouldn't allow himself to be completely changed by his surroundings. I thought that made him weak, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was the strong one to resist those urges. Maybe he was stronger than any of us to hold onto his humanity and refuse to let go. What we've done to survive…Sometimes I feel like we're no better than the dead ones."

Rick felt his insides twist as flashes of blood invaded his mind. He hadn't slept a minute, his mind torturing him with the gory images. He couldn't understand himself anymore. The actions of last night had shifted the balance. Rick had never thought of himself as a cold-blooded person. He would have never even thought of doing anything like that in the past.

_Christ, I'm no better than the people I locked away._

He was changing. Ever since the Governor destroyed his peaceful Utopia, ever since he had believed his daughter to be dead, something had snapped inside him. It had surfaced during their escape from Terminus and during the confrontation with its last living survivors. He could not name it, but Rick was worried…and _thrilled_ by it.

"I can't stop thinkin' about what we did to those Terminus people. I know it's justifiable, but I see them when I close my eyes. Doing what we did to livin' people, mutilatin' them. It _haunts_ me."

"Sometimes you gotta do some bad for the good to shine in."

Rick felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Someone once told me somethin' similar. Thing is, I don't think _she_ was talkin' about this. What we did served no one but ourselves."

They could have done it clean and simple. A blade to the brain and they would have been done, but they had taken it to the next level. They had given in to anger and savagery.

"Everyone's got a beast inside them, Rick. Trick is to know how to keep it caged. Keep it from escapin' its leash and hurt others. What happened yesterday was a slip. A moment of pure, fight or flight battle. It was your first encounter with it, huh?"

Rick stared. He knew Abraham had done some questionable things in the past. He could see it written on the wary lines of his face and the hardness of his stare. He was not a man to be crossed with.

"Don't let it get easier. When you become numb to killin' other people, that's when you should start gettin' worried. If you start to enjoy it, that's even worse, but I don't think you're one of _them_. Nah, you're different."

_Am I?_

Abraham cleared his throat before almost bashfully handing over a map.

"This is a map of DC. We'll stick to it as long as we're able. Once Eugene gets to the big brains left up there, things are gonna bounce back. This group should be there for it."

Rick stared at the piece of paper. Abraham had given him the means to find them. To catch up with them once they retrieved their lost hunters.

"We will."

Without a doubt.

There was nowhere else to go. Rick might as well see if Abraham's dream was true or not. If nothing else, it gave his people a reason to keep on waking up in the morning.

As Abraham left, Rick studied the map and the scribble written over it in black.

_**Sorry I was an asshole. Come to Washington. The New World's gonna need Rick Grimes.**_

A faint smile lit up Rick's somber features. Perhaps there was hope after all.

* * *

Swish.

Swisssshhhh.

Merle sharpened his knife hand with deadly accuracy. He wasn't aware of his actions, his body going on auto-pilot as his mind wandered far from the present—

It was nighttime and his brother and the woman hadn't come back.

Before he croaked, Dale had revealed that the Terminus people let slip that they saw two archers driving away. It could only be Daryl and the Indian. Where to, Merle had no idea. His idea of a tryst had long dissipated from his mind. Something had happened. Something important enough for both of them to get out of dodge without so much as a heads up.

Merle did not like it. He did not enjoy being uninformed, particularly when it concerned people he gave a damn about. Sitting around and waiting for change did not suit his 'take action' style. He had no destination and no direction to which his brother took and his tracking ability did not cover car tires.

For all he knew, they could be out of Georgia.

Merle sighed, feeling a headache press against his temple.

_Fucked up days these last few. From the old man gettin' bit to the others choppin' up some cannibals in a blood frenzy. Not to mention Daryl and the squaw's disappearin', splittin' the group in two._

The veteran hunter pondered about the group. They had changed, every one of them in different shades. He could barely recognize them from the people back in Atlanta, huddled up by the fire, fearing every shadow in the night. He had thought of them weak and useless, and they had been, but that was not the case anymore. They stood on both legs in the face of adversity and kept their ground, their guns and blades brandished and ready for use. Merle actually admired their strength to his vast incredulity.

_Crazy times, heh._

The only one that hadn't changed had been Dale.

Merle felt a tinge of pity in his black heart. He and Dale hadn't exactly gotten along back in Atlanta, but he had been one of the originals of the group. He had Merle's respect for surviving so long.

'_He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.'_

If he remembered correctly, that verse was Revelation 21—

The doors to the church kicked open. Merle jumped to his feet, knife and gun ready, but wavered at the sight of Daryl walking in, worse for wear, accompanied by…

_Who the fuck is that?_

_That_ being a boy no older than eighteen, scrawny looking and nervous, but most importantly—

"Where's Samara?"

Rick had been the one to voice Merle's increasing ire.

_Goddammit, Apache! The hell you get yourself into this time?_

"They took her."

Daryl's voice was gruff and terse, but Merle heard it—the touch of guilt.

As if molten lava poured into his veins, Merle felt his entire body go ablaze.


	10. Modern Brave

They ran with no direction. Two shadows flew through alleyways and narrow streets, avoiding the inhabitants of the abandoned city of Atlanta like frightened mice. No matter how quiet or swift they were, the undead always found a way to them. Always on their trail. Always one step from nipping at their heels.

_They must have an internal fucking GPS because I can't explain it otherwise!_

Samara panted like a dog. She and Daryl had been on the run for the better part of two hours and unless she had been secretly training for a marathon, Samara was close to her limit.

_Dammit, I'm getting old. _

Everywhere they looked, the buildings either weren't secure enough or open to them. They were like rats, trapped in a hostile maze with no scrumptious cheese at the end. Atlanta became dark, dangerous and unwelcoming once nightfall took over. Time was not on their side.

"We're running blind, Daryl. We need to find shelter fast or else we're going to have the whole city on our hands."

"I know!"

Daryl wasn't in any better shape. He too was tired and breathless and far too tense. She was afraid that if she tapped him on the shoulder, he would stab her by accident.

They were hunters. They didn't fear in the daylight—

But they weren't animals. They couldn't hunt in the dark. A moonless night wasn't as depicted in movies with a dark blue hue and the eyes still able to perceive shapes. No, it was _total_ darkness. A black pitch enveloping the world with only a foot of light if you were lucky enough to have a source on hand.

In short, it was _terrifying_.

The duo ended up at the back alley of several buildings and Daryl led them to what seemed like a door reinforced with metal plating. His first attempt at opening it failed.

"Its bein' blocked from the inside. That's a good sign."

_Nothing's a good sign these days. _

"Just pry it open while I keep watch."

As Samara's sight remained impaired, she guided herself by sound. She didn't know which was worse. She could hear them shuffling and tripping over objects, but nothing in their immediate vicinity…_yet_. The walkers that had followed them were relentless, hot on their trail. It was only a matter of time.

The woman's anxiety spiked as snarls erupted. She could hear one down the alleyway they came through.

"Hurry up. They're getting close."

"Almost got it!"

The sound of the lone walker multiplied. A chorus of hungry groans marched towards them to the beat of Samara's hyperventilating heart. Utter horror overwhelmed her as she readied her bow, understanding the uselessness of her blind arrows. Nothing made her feel feeble than having weapons and still being defenseless.

With a grunt, Samara heard Daryl move a heavy object.

"Come on!"

Samara hurried inside, risking the unknown of the abandoned building than running in circles in the open. Daryl shut the door behind them with gentleness and used the bolt and locks to seal it.

The woman almost slid to the ground and shut down her tired body, but their task was far from over. They had to find a safe enough space to bunker down before she could get even a whiff of rest.

Daryl heaved gruff breaths. She could only see a vague outline of him, but even through the darkness she knew he trembled. It had been a close call.

"We gotta keep movin'."

His brisk whisper called forth the last bits of stamina she had left and Samara followed. The pair walked the empty corridors, using their flashlights to illuminate the dark corners of any boogeymen. Dead bodies and dead undead bodies littered the floor, the stench of the place a mixture of dust and decay had them choke back spit.

"What is this place?"

They peered over the large recreation area they ventured into. It was filled with dirty toys and dirt coated chairs for all ages. Samara felt a lump in her throat. The last thing she wanted was to sleep in an orphanage littered with bodies of dead children. Daryl was of the same thought judging from his deep scowl.

Deeper into the building, the more clues they discovered. Coloring books, board games, haphazard clothes, toys, crayons. Children had lived there without a doubt. The sleeping quarters were spartan in design with two beds and a small nightstand, not a personal touch to them. A sad sight to see even before the virus.

Entering one, Daryl studied the objects on the nightstand.

"It's a shelter." He shuffled through several pamphlets lying around a book titled 'Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse'.

Samara grunted, satisfying her curiosity with that slight piece of information. She had no wish to investigate further.

"I guess this room is as good as any. I'll take the top bunk."

"Suit yourself."

Daryl closed the door, bolting the lock and propping a chair underneath the knob. Samara placed her bow and arrows on the bed before moving over to the window and staring out into the dark. She missed the sight of the moon. Anything was better than the pitch black outside.

"I'll take first watch."

"Building's locked up pretty tight."

"I don't mind."

Samara opened the window and lit up her last cigarette, already mourning its loss. In a world so messed up, her smoking habit was the last link to a normal life. A life devoid of ravenous undead cannibals. It was unneeded, but the nostalgic factor sunk its claws into her with a vice.

His eyes were on her, Samara could feel it. She didn't feel discomfort, just a slight wariness that comes from being watched.

"What was the _real_ reason?"

Samara turned, perplexed. Daryl looked her dead in the eye as he sat on his bed, his elbows resting on his knees and hands lax.

"Why you left."

Samara took a deep breath. It was going to be a long and difficult talk, but one that she shall deliver. Despite her natural tendencies towards keeping her emotions in a dark corner and ignoring them, Samara plowed through the grand effort of being…_open_.

"You were right back then. I _was_ running. From you, from the others. It's a…defense mechanism. Been doing it for a long time, way before the world changed. I ran away from home when I was eighteen to join the army because I was afraid I'd remain on the reservation my entire life like my dad. I ran from the army when all that horror and death just piled up too high and I couldn't ignore the affects it had on me anymore. I ran when I realized my husband was dead. I ran from the others because they could be the family I lost. Then…I ran from _you_ because somehow, despite our differences, you grew on me. You were supposed to be just mindless fun. I _never_ anticipated actually giving a damn."

"Why?"

"Because it was easier than the alternative."

Samara threw away her the remnants of her cigarette. Facing herself had never come easy. It was a struggle both of the body and mind and far often than none, her dispassionate side won. It was just easier not to care.

"Reality is a harsh bitch and I don't always feel like confronting it, but the truth is that you will _die_. Rick will die. Andrea, Michonne, Merle…everyone else…and I can't stop it no matter how much I wish I could. Running won't solve it and neither will hiding from it."

Sticking her head in the sand sounded like a grand idea and the Samara of old would have readily accepted it as a form of problem solving, but not anymore. Who would have thought that the end of civilization meant you had to be a responsible adult, something Samara severely lacked in.

"You remember about that Native I told you about? The one dressed—

"—Like a Brave with a rifle."

Samara took in a deep breath. What she was about to impart sounded insane and she had been the one to live it. She could already imagine what Daryl would think about her experience.

"Well, turns out that he was part of a larger group of survivors. People from the reservation that I grew up in. You need to understand, my hometown was near the Grand Canyon. The community thrived on tourism and organizing expeditions, so that meant the majority of my neighbors had knowledge on it—how to survive there, the game of the area and its many caverns and grottos. I do too. The ones that managed to escape the community going undead hid deep in the Canyon where no walker or person would think about searching. They went full on Native."

Samara chuckled, pointing at her face.

"Guess I did too."

Her smile vanished as she remembered…

"That boy took Merle and me there. We stayed with the survivors for about two months. I actually thought that maybe that was it. That was where I belonged, but that damned _feeling_ came back. The nasty feeling of escaping my current situation. To run and never look back. The others couldn't see why I wanted to leave. They couldn't understand since I was back home and among my own. Hell, even I didn't understand. I hit the post-apocalyptic lottery. Secure shelter, food and people I could trust. A chance to look further than the present. Actually have a future."

Samara chuckled but there was no mirth to her voice. It was sad, in fact—

_Samara entered her small corner of the grotto. It was further than the group's main cavern system but close enough to be neighbors. The reason for the isolation was the old hunter's behavior. Even after four months on the road together, he still couldn't at least pretend to be civil. While Samara had become jaded to his racial quips and jabs, her people didn't. Samara had been more than welcome to join the heart of the group, but she decided to stand by the older Dixon, gods know why because he didn't deserve it._

_The light of a camp lantern could be seen reflecting off the rocks and she thought Merle might have returned early from his prairie hunt. Instead, a smaller form sat by the light, eating an apple._

"_I heard from the elders that you want to leave."_

_Dine Bizaad flowed smoothly from the older woman's lips and Samara grimaced as she realized who her visitor was. An old acquaintance that she never enjoyed being around. _

"_You heard right. I'm leaving in a few days."_

_Samara sat by the lantern, on opposite sides of her elder, and lit up a cigarette._

"_Those things will kill you, you know."_

_Samara snorted._

"_I'm pretty sure lung cancer won't be the reason for my untimely death."_

"_Hmph. Young people these days don't know anything about responsibility—"_

"_Spare me your 'in my day' speech. Those times are dead and buried. There's no future to look up to so I have no reason to be _responsible_ for anything. The only thing I have to worry about is weapons and food and there won't be an unlimited supply of that here. I can't stay here forever. I overstayed my welcome anyways."_

_The old woman snorted._

"_Is that what people say these days when they're running from what little good there is in this messed up world?"_

_Samara glared._

"_I'm not running."_

"_Really? Those people you left in Georgia…Did you overstay your welcome there too?"_

_Samara glared. She didn't need a lecture._

"_Did you come here for a reason, hag?"_

_The old woman looked Samara dead in the eye before those piercing brown eyes traveled to her hand. Her wedding ring finger specifically. _

"_How long will you keep carrying _that_ around with you?"_

_Samara felt a violent itch somewhere deep inside. _

"_It's none of your business."_

"_Hmph. You always were a stubborn girl. Figures you'd end up worse as an adult."_

_Her fingers hooked, the urge to strangle the old woman's scrawny neck growing in intensity. _

"_You don't know me or the shit I've been through. You haven't seen me since I was a teen and even then we weren't exactly on friendly terms. So, keep your lectures to yourself, _shaman_."_

_Samara spat the last word out, an insult more than a label._

"_True, but the time you stayed here told me everything I needed to know. You're _sick_. There's something rotten inside you that keeps you chained to the past."_

"_Is that you PHD in Psychology talking?" Samara snarked._

"_Common sense and a good eye for people."_

"_Give me a fucking break…Look, whatever you say won't stop me from lea—"_

"_I'm not trying to make you stay, stupid girl. You go where you want to, but first you need to _let go_. I saw the photos. Saw how you keep reflecting over them. Your father and your husband…You can't keep carrying them around with you because in the end that's what's gonna kill you. Take it from someone who wasted decades of her life blaming herself."_

_Samara sat staring into the fire, almost in a trance. There was a heaviness pushing against her heart, almost suffocating at the thought of leaving her husband and father behind. It was inconceivable. They were all she had—_

"How'd you know her?"

"The hag? She was this woman from my neighborhood. A biologist researching the plant life of the Grand Canyon. Because she knew how to use plants for various purposes, kids called her a _shaman_, but she was just a very introverted woman. Grouchy as hell, too. The old bitch remembered _me_ because I used to leave dog shit set on fire on her doorstep."

Daryl grunted.

"She saw right through me. Saw everything and worse of all she was right. I just didn't want to admit it because then I knew I _had_ a problem."

"What you'd do?"

"The usual. I left. Me and Merle stayed the winter in California. That's where we met a biker gang who was surprisingly helpful. Good people if a little rough around the edges. As the days got colder and it became harder to jump from one place to the other, I had time to think. To reflect. 'The Devil finds work for idle hands'."

Samara scoffed, shaking her head at that baloney but accurate quote.

"I had a revelation, so to say. I had to go back to Arizona."

Merle had not been happy. He had felt content around those bikers. They were alike in every manner. Samara had given him the choice, no hard feelings whatsoever, and…he chose to leave with her.

She had not asked why.

Samara remembered the moment she came back to her childhood town and sat by her father's grave, lost to the world. She had talked, words spilling out of here like a broken faucet. Everything that had been on her chest. The years lost between them. She divulged it all like an age-old secret. She was wary and sad and angry at herself. So many years she had kept it all buried, never one to show even a hint of weakness. But not then. She let it all rush out in a howl of sorrow.

She made peace with her father. Forgave herself for the years that she ignored and blamed him for her tumultuous childhood and teen years. For running away from home with only a brisk, cold note left behind. For breaking his heart…She burned his photo and let it scatter to the wind. It took a lot. The Native felt like a chunk was physically torn from her body, but she _let_ _go_.

Samara swallowed, shaken. She fished for a nonexistent cigarette and groaned when she realized she had none left. The memory wasn't fresh, a few weeks old to be exact, but it still _hurt_.

"I just have one last place to go. New York. That's why I accepted Abraham's crazy proposal. Since it was in my way, I might as well go in a group. And after…I hope I won't have to ever run again."

Daryl's eyes narrowed in thought.

"New York…That's where your husband died, ain't it?"

Samara stared at the man who seemed to give her all his attention. At the creases in his brow and the bags underneath his eyes. He seemed to have gotten older in the span of barely a year. The life was taking its toll on him. Daryl would never admit it, but his soul must be craving that sweet gem called peace and quiet.

She remembered the feel of his skin, the ripple of his muscles underneath her touch. How he shied away when she touched his back. How those blue eyes wanted to peer into her soul, but never once having the chance.

"You were good to me. I shouldn't have led you on, but it was the only way I could keep you close. I'm selfish that way. I didn't want to lose you despite knowing how it would end."

He was a warm body that cared about her. That would have protected her with his life. At that time, it was all that mattered even if the feeling wasn't reciprocated. She toyed and twisted him around her needs, never once his. It had always been about her.

Looking back, Samara felt shame for her behavior.

"I'm sorry. I hope someday you can forgive me…but if you can't then that's all right. Just know that I _am_ trying."

_To be better. To not be that person you knew before._

Daryl stared at her with that hard gaze that cut through skin. She could almost see his thoughts churning, but there was no window to his soul. He was still a closed book to her.

"You should go to sleep."

_Well…it's not like I expected anything else._

Samara swallowed her disappointment and left the window sill. She climbed into her bed and remained motionless as she counted the cracks in the ceiling. She had divulged everything. She just hoped that they could find some common ground in the future. Maybe even be friends for once.

She would like that above all else.

* * *

At first light, Daryl and Samara were back on the abandoned streets. They had to reach a high point where they could overlook the city and get a clear map of it.

Daryl hadn't said a word since Samara's heart to heart last night. He had carried on as if nothing had happened. She did not expect him too, either. He was the quiet type after all. His actions spoke louder than words. An inherited trait of the Dixon family. It would take some time for him to _want_ to process her words and come to a decision on what he'd do.

For the moment, Samara focused on the task at hand. There was a reason they were scurrying around like rats through Atlanta.

As they passed a main street, Samara spied a dirtied tank in the distance. She wondered if it still worked.

"Over there."

Samara stared at the tall building with a sky bridge in the distance. It had the necessary height, but far too many walkers shambled the street between them and their destination. Daryl lit up the book he had taken from the shelter and threw it. Like mindless sheep, the undead became engrossed with the blazing stack of papers and huddled towards it, providing them with the chance to run undetected.

They entered the building through the parking lot, climbing the many levels to the last floor where the bridge was. The snarling of the dead could be heard ahead and they came across animated sleeping bags. There were even two tents with unliving occupants inside

They knifed the ones in the bags and passed the trapped ones undisturbed. No reason to waste time on them.

A pair of double doors greeted them with chains wrapped snug around the handles. Samara budged them, to see how far apart they spread.

"We can fit through. Well, at least I can without a hitch. It's going to be a tight squeeze for you."

"I ain't fat."

She almost smiled at his indignant frown.

"Didn't say you were, but you are bulkier than me."

Samara passed on to the other side with Daryl right on her trail. He grunted and grimaced as he forced his body through the gap. Halfway through, he froze—

Samara couldn't reign in her amusement anymore. Her grin was similar to a Cheshire cat's that ate a fat canary. He looked so comical, making unconscious silly faces as he squeezed through the space in the doors.

"Good thing I skipped breakfast."

He joked lamely as he avoided her eyes, his cheeks turning scarlet.

The fact that Daryl Dixon could at any time look _cute_ was almost like seeing a unicorn.

They continued on their journey and reached a hallway reserved for offices. Daryl took her to the furthest one in the building. The inside of it was spacious and luxurious. Whoever had been its occupant, had been someone high ranking on the corporate ladder.

Daryl headed for the window while Samara filled her waterskin with what was left of the water dispenser. She approached him while drinking a healthy amount of stale water. She passed him the waterskin as she looked over the sad beast that had once been Atlanta.

"To think that only two years ago this place was bustling with people and cars, and now—"

"Hand me your rifle."

Samara did and watched as Daryl looked through the scope. Something must have caught his eye.

He placed his finger on the glass, instructing without words to follow his line of sight. Samara took back her rifle and searched through the magnified lens and came across a van on a bridge just on the edge of toppling over. She understood then—

"I can see the crosses, but it looks like it's been there a while. Might be a cold lead."

"Still worth a shot."

Samara agreed. She filled up the waterskin once more for the travel. It wouldn't be easy. They would be exposed on that bridge and if walkers came from both sides, they could become trapped.

Daryl lingered in the office. He stared transfixed at the wall where a giant painting was hung. The painting wasn't anything special, but it did have some pretty colors.

"I bet this cost some rich prick a lot of money. Looks like a dog sat in paint and wiped its ass all over the place."

Samara smirked.

"You have an _interesting_ imagination. Do you want to take it as a souvenir?"

Daryl snorted before leaving the office.

* * *

As before, Samara was the first to cross the chained doors. She threw her rifle first and then crawled out, grunting at the exertion.

The rifle disappeared from view.

Samara's eyes flew upwards, heart in her throat. There stood a young man, pointing her own rifle at her. He made a motion for her to get up. Samara did, her eyes steadily assessing the situation.

The boy couldn't be older than eighteen, scrawny looking but not malnourished. In fact, he looked well-kept and fed. There was a certain desperation in his gaze, one she knew. Had seen them in people that had been fearful for others' lives. He was no killer, though. She could tell that from one look. His hands shook and sweat pooled at his forehead. Even his breaths were ragged and short. He was _scared_.

Once she heard Daryl's crossbow hit the floor, she knew he was about to cross.

"Daryl, stay there!"

Silence from the other side.

"Hey, come out! Do it or else I'm gonna shoot her!"

"Don't do it! He won't shoot me!"

She'd rather have the kid run with her weapon than have both her and Daryl at gunpoint.

"Look kid, you can just take my riffle and—"

She heard the chains rattle and Samara cursed. Daryl appeared next to her, watching the boy with the keen stare of a predator.

"You idiot." Samara hissed, but Daryl ignored her.

"Slide that crossbow over to me!"

"You got some sack on you."

"Look, nobody has to get hurt. I just need weapons, that's it. So, please, give me your crossbow."

Daryl did with great reluctance. The boy took his weapon and threw it over his shoulder.

"Your guns, also."

Samara took in a calming breath as she cleared her holsters and handed them over.

"Now, hands up, both of you. I'm sorry about this." The boy backed up. "You two look tough so you'll be all right."

He took out his knife and cut through the tents, releasing the walkers. It wasn't much of a fight for the duo. Daryl and Samara took care of them with the weapons they still had left. Daryl stabbed a walker with his hunting knife while Samara used her axe. Once the walkers hit the floor, Samara prepared to throw her weapon at the boy. Before she could launch it, Daryl slapped it out of her hand.

Samara scowled, but there was no time to argue. She ran after the boy, intent on catching up to him, but the door he went through had been blocked. Daryl threw himself against it, but it was to no avail. It wouldn't budge.

"Fuck!"

"I can't fucking believe this. We just got mugged by a kid." Samara tittered. "I think I'm getting old."

Daryl turned to her with agitated anger visible on his skin.

"How the hell did you miss him?!"

"I didn't see him. He must have been hiding behind the tents."

"Could've been a walker instead! You think about that, huh? At least the livin' give a warnin', the undead don't!"

"You're one to talk. You were on the other side! Why the fuck did you cross the doors? That kid wasn't going to shoot me. He didn't have it in him!"

"I couldn't risk it! You don't know what he had in mind!"

"Give me a break, Daryl. After all this time, I know the difference between a dog that bites and one that barks. That kid's bark is barely a puppy's yap."

He stared at her in mute silence. She could feel his anger wafting off him like vapors, heating her skin. He spat at the ground before walking past her.

"Where are you going? We need to find that kid!"

"He's long gone by now."

"We're in the middle of an undead infested city. If we find those people that took Beth, how are we supposed to fight them? Without guns we could die!"

"We'll find more."

"In case you haven't noticed, it's becoming increasingly hard to find guns, let alone ammunition. We _need_ those weapons!"

Daryl stopped and turned on her, his anger climbing another step.

"You wanna go scour the city after that kid, be my guest. You wanna _kill_ him for the guns, fine, but I ain't goin'. Plan didn't change. I'm still headin' for that bridge."

_Ah…I see._

"I wasn't going to kill him; I was aiming for his leg. He was stealing our weapons. What was I supposed to do? Just let him leave? Goddammit, Daryl! You think someone's holding Beth hostage. How the hell do you think we can fight living people with only some knives! It's a suicide run!"

"We'll figure it out."

"Gods, since when the hell did you become so thoughtless?! The risks are too high. It'll get us killed, you stubborn bastard, and I don't want _you_ to die!"

Daryl's features twisted for a moment in something resembling shame and hurt, before the fury returned.

Samara wasn't finished, though—

"Don't you get it? I don't know Beth that well, but I do _want_ to get her back. I do want to help you, but not if it means going about it stupidly. We have to be smart, Daryl, and not impatient. Right now, we need our weapons back. Without them we don't stand a chance against other people. Those guns are our wild cards and—"

"I ain't stupid or impatient, I'm bein' real. Fact is, those weapons are gone and we need to adapt to that. What's done is done, but we gotta keep on goin' otherwise what's the point. You think you're the only one that's tryin', huh? I'm tryin' to start over, goddammit!"

Their breaths were left ragged from their verbal match. They stood facing each other, electricity tingling their already tense muscles. Neither backed off; it wasn't in their nature. It reminded Samara of their past bouts, but it was somehow different. Melancholier.

Samara closed her eyes and took a rigid step back. She couldn't stand the sorrowful air between them. It suffocated her and left an indent in her armor.

Daryl breathed out a harsh breath and for a moment Samara thought she saw a spark of dejection. The moment was gone as the man turned away.

"Let's get to that bridge."

Samara followed.


End file.
